J 


"Bj/ffughWdlpoi 


Try      TJP>RTS 
ANxNE   DILLON 


"•It  IS  not  life  that  matters!   'Tis  the  cour- 
age you  bring  to  it'  ' 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


o( 


A 


BOOK    may     be    as    gret 
liattlr.-  Disraeli. 


GIFT  OF 

l!rs.  Helen  A.  Dillon 


~   tmpire  were  una  auwn  im  »»».r  /ec  •#•  k-«^. 

for  mr  hookx  and  my  love  of  reading,  I  would 

spurn  them  all. — Fenfxon. 


*i 


'"PHE  purest  pleasures  I  have  ever  known  ore 
^  those  accessible  to  you  all;  it  is  in  the  calm 
intercourse  with  intelligent  minds,  through  books. 
— R.  COBOEN. 


j^T  least  be  sure  that  you  go  to  the  author  to 

get  at  his  meaning,   not  to  find  yours.    If 

the  person  uhv  wrote  the  booh  is  not  wiser  than 

you,  you  nerd  not  read  it;  if  he  be,  he, will  think 

differently  from  you  in  many  respects. — KuaiUM. 


B     u  jtf^t  v'»9  s'-MM  neeta  ^jw? 


ON  READING 


©' 


'HERE  are  folks  who 
profess  to  be  able  to 
diagnose  the  character  of 
a  person  by  observing  the 
shape  of  his  head ,  the  angu- 
larity of  his  chin,  nose  and 
jaw,  the  size  and  convo- 
lutions of  his  ears,  the  tex- 
ture and  color  of  his  hair, 
the  size  and  shape  of  his 
[fingers,  and  other  physical 
peculiarities.  There  may 
be  something  in  it,  but  we 
doubt  if  any  such  purely 
physical  signs  can  denote 
the  real  character  and  quality  of  the  soul  within. 
"Clothes  do  not  make  the  man,"  and  mortal 
bodies  are  often  gross  caricatures  of  noble  spirits 
that  are  clothed  with  poorly  tailored  apparel. 

There  is  a  much  better  and  more  reliable  index  to 
human  character  and  intelligence.  That  index  is 
furnished  by  the  books  we  read.  Stoddard  says: 
"Given  the  books  of  a  man  it  is  not  difficult,  I 
think,  to  detect  therein  the  personality  of  the  man, 
and  the  station  in  life  to  which  he  was  born." 
Which  is  to  say,  "tell  me  the  sort  of  books  that 
appeal  to  you  and  I  will  be  able  to  judge  pretty 
accurately  the  sort  of  person  you  are,  and  the 
degree  of  true  culture  you  have  attained." 


Page  One 


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in  2007  witin  funding  from 

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littp://www.arcliive.org/details/fortitudebeingtrOOwalpiala 


FORTITUDE 
HUGH  WALPOLE 


NOVELS  BY  HUGH  WALPOLE 

STUDIES  IN  PLACS 

THE  WOODEN  HORSE 
MARADICK  AT  FORTY 
Mr.  PERRIN  and  Mr.  TRAILi. 

PROLOaUES  TO  "THE  RISINO  CITY" 

THE  PRELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 
FORTITUDE 

m  PREPARATION 

THE  RISING  CITY 


FORTITUDE 

BEING  A  TRUE  AND  FAITHFUL 

ACCOUNT  OF  THE  EDUCATION 

OF  AN  ADVENTURER 


BY 

HUGH  WALPOLE 


"I  cannot  praise  a  fugitive  and  cloistered  virtue  «n- 
exercised  and  unbreathed,  that  never  sallies  out  and 
seesher  adversary,  hut  slinks  out  of  the  race  when  that 
immortal  garland  is  to  be  run  for,  not  without  dust 
and  heat." 

ABEOPAOmOA 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


Copyright,  191S 
Bt  Gcokob  H.  Dokan  Compahv 


Colleg'o 
library 

Wttf 


TO 

CHARLES  MAUDE 

THE  BEST  OF  FRIENDS  AND  THS 
MOST  HONEST  OF  CRITICS 


i-'^ec'DG.; 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

BOOK  I:  SCAW  HOUSE 

I      IXTRODUCTIOK     TO     CoXTRAQE 11 

II     How  THE  Westcott  Familt  Sat  Up  fob  Peter     .     .     25 

III  Of  the   Dark   Shop   of   Zachary   Tan,  and  of  the 

Decisions  that  the  People  in  Scaw  House  Came 
TO  Concerning  Peter 37 

IV  In  Which  Dawson's,  as  the  Gate  of  Life,  is  Proved 

A  Disappointment 50 

V  Dawson's,  the  Gate  into  Hell 63 

VI    A   Looking-Glass,   a   Silver  Match-box,  a   Glass   of 

Whisky  and  Vox  Populi 75 

Vll    Pride  of  Life 92 

VIII     Peter  and  His  Mother 103 

IX    The   Three   Westcotts 114 

X     Sunlight,  Limelight,  Daylight 131 

XI     All  Kinds  of  Fog  in  the  Charing  Cross  Road     .     .  147 
XII     Brockett's:  Its     Characters     and     Especially     Mrs. 

Bbockett 160 

BOOK  II:  THE  BOOKSHOP 

I  "Reuben  Hallabd" 173 

II  The  Man  on  the  Lion 186 

III  Royal  Personsages  are  Coming 198 

IV  A    Little    Dust 209 

V  A    Narrow    Street 221 

VI  The  World  and  Bucket  Lane 231 

VII    Devil's     March 242 

VIII    Stephen's  Chapter 252 

BOOK  III:  THE  ROUNDABOUT 

I    No.  72  Cheyne  Walk 265 

II  A  Chapter  about  Success:  How  to  Win  It,  How  to 
Keep  It  —  With  a  Note  at  the  End  from  Henry 
Galleon 278 

III  The  Encounter 291 

IV  The      Roundabout 806 

V  The    In-Betweens 319 


CONTENTS 

VI     BiBTH  or  THE  Hei« 335 

VII     Declaration  of  Happixess 344 

VIII     Blinds  Down 3^ 

IX     Wild  Men 3g. 

X  Rocking  the  Roundabout     .     .                                          377 

XI  wht? ;  ;  ."  ;  ;389 

XII  A    Woman    Called    Rose    Bennett 399 

XIII  "MoBTiaiER  Stant" ^13 

XIV  Pete*  Buys  a  Present 426 

XV  Mr.   Westcott   Senior  Calls   Checkmate     ....  436 

BOOK  IV:  SCAW  HOUSE 
The  Sea         447 


I 


II    Scaw      House 
III 


435 


NORAH    MONOGUE ^g^ 


IV    Thr   GRRr   Hill 


479 


BOOK  I 
SCAW  HOUSE 


CHAPTER  I 
INTRODUCTION  TO  COURAGE 

I 

4  (  >rp ISN'T  life  that  matters!     'Tis  the  courage  you  ^^ 

X.  bring  to  it "  .  .  .  this  from  old  Frosted  Moses 
in  the  warm  corner  by  the  door.  There  might  have  been 
an  answer,  but  Dicky  Tasset,  the  Town  Idiot,  filled  in  the 
pause  with  the  tale  that  he  was  telling  Mother  Figgis. 
"  And  I  ran — a  mile  or  more  with  the  stars  dotted  aU  over 
the  ground  for  yer  pickin',  as  yer  might  say  .  .  ." 

A  little  boy,  Peter  Westcott,  heard  what  old  Frosted 
Moses  had  said,  and  turned  it  over  in  his  mind.  He  was 
twelve  years  old,  was  short  and  thick-necked,  and  just  now 
looked  very  small  because  he  was  perched  on  so  high  a 
chair.  It  was  one  of  the  four  ancient  chairs  that  Sam 
Figgis  always  kept  in  the  great  kitchen  behind  the  tap- 
room. He  kept  them  there  partly  because  they  were  so 
very  old  and  partly  because  they  fell  in  so  pleasantly  with 
the  ancient  colour  and  strength  of  the  black  smoky  rafters. 
The  four  ancient  chairs  were  carved  up  the  legs  with  faces 
and  arms  and  strange  crawling  animals  and  their  backs 
were  twisted  into  the  oddest  shapes  and  were  uncomfortable 
to  lean  against,  but  Peter  Westcott  sat  up  very  straight 
■with  his  little  legs  dangling  in  front  of  him  and  his  grey 
eyes  all  over  the  room  at  once.  He  could  not  see  all  of  the 
room  because  there  were  depths  that  the  darkness  seized  and 
filled,  and  the  great  fiery  place,  with  its  black-stained  settle, 
was  full  of  mysterious  shadows.  A  huge  fire  was  burning 
and  leaping  in  the  fastnesses  of  that  stone  cavity,  and  it  was 
by  the  light  of  this  alone  that  the  room  was  illumined — and 
this  had  the  effect  as  Peter  noticed,  of  making  certain  people, 
like  Mother  Figgis  and  Jane  Clewer,  quite  monstrous,  and 
fantastic  with  their  skirts  and  hair  and  their  shadows  on 
the  wall.  Before  Frosted  Moses  had  said  that  sentence 
about  Courage,  Peter  had  been  taking  the  room  in.  Be- 
cause he  had  been  there  very  often  before  he  knew  every 

11 


W  FORTITUDE 

flagstone  in  the  floor  and  every  rafter  in  the  roof  and  all 
the  sporting  pictures  on  the  walls,  and  the  long  shining  row 
of  mugs  and  coloured  plates  by  the  iire-place  and  the  cured 
hams  hanging  from  the  ceiling  .  .  .  but  to-night  was 
Christmas  Eve  and  a  very  especial  occasion,  and  he  was  sure 
to  be  beaten  when  he  got  home,  and  so  must  make  the  very 
most  of  his  time.  He  watched  the  door  also  for  Stephen 
Brant,  who  was  late,  but  might  arrive  at  any  moment.  Had 
it  not  been  for  Stephen  Brant  Peter  knew  that  he  would  not 
have  been  allowed  there  at  all.  The  Order  of  the  Kitchen 
was  jealously  guarded  and  Sam  Figgis,  the  Inn-keeper, 
would  have  considered  so  small  a  child  a  nuisance,  but  Ste- 
phen was  the  most  popular  man  in  the  county,  and  he  had 
promised  that  Peter  would  be  quiet — and  he  was  quiet,  even 
at  that  age;  no  one  could  be  so  quiet  as  Peter  when  he  chose. 
And  then  they  liked  the  boy  after  a  time.  He  was  never  in 
the  way,  and  he  was  wonderfully  wise  for  his  years :  he  was  a 
strong  kid,  too,  and  had  muscles  .  .  . 

So  Peter  crept  there  when  he  could,  although  it  very  often 
meant  a  beating  afterwards,  but  the  Kitchen  was  worth  a 
good  many  beatings,  and  he  would  have  gone  through  Hell 
— and  did  indeed  go  through  his  own  special  Hell  on  many 
occasions — to  be  in  Stephen's  company.  They  were  all  nice 
to  him  even  when  Stephen  wasn't  there,  but  there  were  other 
reasons,  besides  the  people,  that  drew  Peter  to  the  place. 

It  was  partly  perhaps  because  The  Bending  Mule 
was  built  right  out  into  the  sea,  being  surrounded  on  three 
sides  by  water.  This  was  all  twenty  years  ago,  and  I  be- 
lio-e  that  now  the  Inn  has  been  turned  into  an  Arts  Club, 
and  there  are  tea-parties  and  weekly  fashion  papers  where 
there  had  once  been  those  bloody  fights  and  Mother  Figgis 
sitting  like  some  witch  o\-er  the  fire;  but  it  is  no  matter. 
Treliss  is  changed,  of  course,  and  so  is  the  world,  and  there 
are  politeness  and  sentiment  where  once  there  were  oaths 
and  ferocity,  and  there  is  much  soap  instead  of  grimy  hands 
and  unwashen  faces  .  .  .  and  the  fishing  is  sadly  on  the 
decline,  but  there  are  good  drapers'  shops  in  the  town. 

For  Peter  the  charm  of  the  place  was  that  "  he  was  out 
at  sea."  One  could  hear  quite  distinctly  the  lap  of  the 
waves  against  the  walls  and  on  stormy  nights  the  water 
•creamed  and  fought  and  raged  outside  and  rolled  in  than- 


SCAW  HOUSE  IS 

dering  echoes  along  the  shore.     To-night  everything  was  still, 
and  the  snow  was  falling  heavily,  solemnly  over  the  town. 

The  snow,  and  the  black  sea,  and  the  lights  that  rose 
tier  on  tier  like  crowds  at  a  circus,  could  be  seen  through  the 
imcurtained  windows. 

The  snow  and  quiet  of  the  world  "  out-along  "  made  the 
lights  and  warmth  of  the  room  the  more  comforting  and  ex- 
citing, and  Sam  Figgis  had  hung  holly  about  the  walls  and 
dangled  a  huge  bunch  of  mistletoe  from  the  middle  beam 
and  poor  Jane  Clewer  was  always  walking  under  it  acciden- 
tally and  waiting  a  little,  but  nobody  kissed  her.  These 
things  Peter  noticed;  he  also  noticed  that  Dicky  the  Idiot 
;was  allowed  to  be  present  as  a  very  great  favour  because  it 
was  Christmas  Eve  and  snowing  so  hard,  that  the  room  was 
more  crowded  than  he  had  ever  seen  it,  and  that  Mother 
Figgis,  with  her  round  face  and  her  gnarled  and 
knotted  hands,  was  at  her  very  merriest  and  in  the  best  of 
tempers.  All  these  things  Peter  had  noticed  before  Frosted 
Moses  (so  called  because  of  his  long  white  beard  and  won- 
derful age)  made  his  remark  about  Courage,  but  as  soon  as 
that  remark  was  made  Peter's  thoughts  were  on  to  it  as  the 
hounds  are  on  to  a  fox.  V 

/       "  'Tisn't  life  that  matters,  but  the  Courage  yer  bring  to    j 
/    it  .  .  ."  ^ 

^        That,  of  course,  at  once  explained  everything.     It  ex- 
plained his  own  father  and  his  home,  it  explained  poor  Mrs. 
Prothero  and  her  two  sons  who  were  drowned,  it  explained 
I      Stephen's  cousin  who  was  never  free  from  the  most  painful 
rheumatics,  and  it  explained  Stephen  himself  who  was  never 
1      afraid  of  any  one  or  anything.     Peter  stared  at   Frosted 
I      Moses,  whose  white  beard  was  shining  in  the  fire-place  and 
his  boots  were  like  large  black  boats;  but  the  old  man  was 
I      drawing  at  his  pipe,  and  had  made  his  remark  apparently 
/      in  connection  with  nothing  at  all.     Peter  was  also  disap- 
pointed to  see  that  the  room  at  large  had  paid  no  attention 
to  the  declaration. 
/      Courage.     That  was  what  they  were  all  there  for,  and 
/  soon,  later  in  the  evening,  he  would  take  his  beating  like  a 
j    man,  and  would  not  cry  out  as  he  had  done  the  last  time. 
\   And  then,  at  the  thought  of  the  beating,  he  shivered  a  Httle 
\  on  hi?  tall  chair  and  his  two  short  legs  in  their  black  stock«» 


14  FORTITUDE 

/  ings  beat  against  the  wooden  bars,  and  wished  that  he  might 

/    have   stayed   in   some   dark   corner   of   The   Bending   Mule 

\    during   the   rest  of  the  night   and   not  go   home   until  the 

\  morning — or,  indeed,  a  very  much  better  and  happier  thing, 

I  never  go  home  again  at  all.     He  would  get  a  worse  beating 

/  for  staying  out  so  late,  but  it  was  something  of  a  comfort 

(^to  reflect  that  he  would  have  been  beaten  in  any  case;  old 

Simon  Parlow,  who  taught  him  mathematics  and  Latin,  with 

a  bttle  geography  and  history  during  six  days  of  the  week, 

had  given  him  that  morning  a  letter  to  his  father  directed 

in  the  old  man's  most  beautiful  handwriting  to  the  effect 

that  Master  Westcott  had  made  no  progress  at  all  in  his 

sums  during  the  last  fortnight,  had  indeed  made  no  attempt 

at  progress,  and  had  given  William  Daffoll,  the  rector's  son, 

a  bleeding  nose  last  Wednesday  when  he  ought  to  have  been 

adding,  dividing,  and  subtracting.     Old  Parlow  had  shown 

him  the  letter  so  that  Peter  knew  that  there  was  no  escape, 

unless    indeed    Peter   destroyed   the   paper,   and   that   only 

meant  that  punishment  was  deferred. 

Yes,  it  meant  a  beating,  and  Peter  had  hung  about  the 
town  and  the  shore  all  the  afternoon  and  evening  because 
J  he  was  afraid.  This  fact  of  his  fear  puzzled  him  and  he 
t  had  often  considered  the  matter.  He  was  not,  in  any  other 
way,  a  coward,  and  he  had  done,  on  many  occasions,  things 
that  other  friends  of  his  own  age  had  hung  back  from,  but 
the  thought  of  his  father  made  him  quite  sick  with  fear 
somewhere  in  the  middle  of  his  stomach.  He  considered  the 
matter  very  carefully  and  he  decided  at  last  (and  he  was 
very  yoimg  for  so  terrible  a  discovery)  that  it  was  because 
his  father  liked  beating  him  that  he  was  afraid.  He  knew 
that  his  father  liked  it  because  he  had  watched  his  mouth 
and  had  heard  the  noise  that  came  through  his  lips.  And 
this,  again,  was  rather  strange  because  his  father  did  not 
look  as  though  he  would  like  it;  be  had  a  cold  face  like  a 
stone  and  was  always  in  black  clothes,  but  he  did  not,  as  a 
rule,  show  that  he  was  pleased  or  angry  or  sorry — he  never 
showed  things. 

Now  these  words  of  Frosted  Moses  explained  everything.^ 

It  was  because  his  father  knew  that  it  was  Courage  that 

/  mattered  that  he  liked  to  beat  Peter  ...  it  was  good  for 

VPeter  to  learn  Courage. 


SCAW  HOUSE  15 

"  'Tisn't  life  that  matters  "...  it  isn't  a  beating  that 
matters   .    .    . 

Frosted  Moses  was  a  great  deal  wiser  than  old  Simon 
Parlow,  who,  in  spite  of  his  knowing  so  much  about  sums, 
knew  nothing  whatever  about  life.  He  knew  nothing  what- 
ever about  Courage  either  and  shook  like  a  leaf  when  his 
sister.  Miss  Jessel  Parlow,  was  angry  with  him,  as  she  very 
often  had  reason  to  be.  Peter  despised  the  old  man  with 
his  long  yellow  tooth  that  hung  over  his  lower  lip,  and  his 
dirty  grey  hair  that  strayed  from  under  his  greasy  black 
velvet  cap  (like  wisps  of  hay).  Peter  never  cared  any- 
thing for  the  words  or  the  deeds  of  old  Parlow.  .  .  .  But 
Frosted  Moses!  ...  he  had  lived  for  ever,  and  people 
said  that  he  could  never  die.  Peter  had  heard  that  he  had 
been  in  the  Ark  with  Noah,  and  he  had  often  wished  to  ask 
him  questions  about  that  interesting  period,  about  Ham, 
Shem  and  Japheth,  and  about  the  animals.  Of  course, 
therefore,  he  knew  everything  about  Life,  and  this  remark 
of  his  about  Courage  was  worth  considering.  Peter  watched 
him  very  solemnly  and  noticed  how  his  white  beard  shone  in 
the  fire-light,  how  there  was  a  red  handkerchief  falling  out  of 
one  enormous  pocket,  and  how  there  was  a  big  silver  ring 
on  one  brown  and  bony  finger  .  .  .  and  then  the  crowd 
of  sailors  at  the  door  parted,  and  Stephen  Brant  came  in. 


r 

Stephen  Brant,  the  most  wonderful  person  in  the  world ! 

=  Always,  through  life,  Peter  must  have  his  most  wonderful 
person,  and  sometimes  those  Heroes  knew  of  it  and  lived  up 
to  his  worshipping  and  sometimes  they  knew  of  it  and  could 

'•   not  live  up  to  it,  but  most  frequently  they  never  knew  be- 


cause Peter  did  not  let  them  see.  This  Hero  worship  is  at 
l^^'the  back  of  a  great  deal  that  happened  to  Peter,  of  a  great 
I     deal  of  his  sorrow,  and  of  all  of  his  joy,  and  he  would 

not  have  been  Peter  without  it;  very  often  these  Heroes, 

/     poor    things,    came    tumbling    from    their    pedestals,    often 

/     they  came,  in  very  shame,  down  of  their  own  accord,  and 

\     perhaps  of  them  all  Stephen  only  was  worthy  of  his  eleva- 

\^  tion,  and  he  never  knew  that  he  was  elevated. 

He  knew  now,  of  course,  that  Peter  loved  him;  but  Peter 


16  FORTITUDE 

was  a  little  boy,  and  was  taken  by  persons  who  were  strong 
and  liked  a  laugh  and  were  kind  in  little  ways.  Stephen 
knew  that  when  Peter  grew  older  he  must  love  other  and 
wiser  people.  He  was  a  very  large  man,  six  foot  three  and 
broad,  with  a  brown  beard,  and  grey  eyes  like  Peter's.  He 
had  been  a  fisherman,  but  now  he  was  a  farmer,  because  it 
paid  better — he  had  an  old  mother,  one  enemy,  and  very 
many  friends ;  he  had  loved  a  girl,  and  she  had  been  engaged 
to  him  for  two  years,  but  another  man  had  taken  her  away 
and  married  her — and  that  is  why  he  had  an  enemy.  He 
greeted  his  friends  and  kissed  poor  Jane  Clewer  under  the 
mistletoe,  and  then  kissed  old  Mother  Figgis,  who  pushed 
him  away  with  a  laugh  and  "  Coom  up  there — where  are  yer 
at }  " — and  Peter  watched  him  until  his  turn  also  should 
come.  His  legs  were  beating  the  wooden  bars  again  with 
excitement,  but  he  would  not  say  anything.  He  saw  Stephen 
as  something  very  much  larger  and  more  stupendous  than  any 
one  else  in  the  room.  There  were  men  there  bigger  of  body  - 
perhaps,  and  men  who  were  richer — Stephen  had  only  four  ' 
cows  on  his  farm  and  he  never  did  much  with  his  hay — but 
there  was  no  one  who  could  change  a  room  simply  by  enter- .' 
ing  it  as  Stephen  could.  -^ 

At  last  the  moment  came — Stephen  turned  round — "  Why, 
boy!" 

Peter  was  glad  that  the  rest  of  the  room  was  busied  once 
more  with  its  talking,  laughing,  and  drinking,  and  some  old 
man  (sitting  on  a  table  and  his  nose  coming  through  the 
tobacco-smoke  like  a  rat  tlirough  a  hole  in  the  wall)  had 
struck  up  a  time  on  a  fiddle.  Peter  was  glad,  because  no 
one  watched  them  together.  He  liked  to  meet  Stephen  in 
private.  He  buried  his  small  hand  in  tlie  brown  depths  of 
Stephen's  large  one,  and  then  as  Stephen  looked  uncertainly 
round  the  room,  he  whispered:  "Steve — my  chair,  and  me 
sitting  on  you — please." 

It  was  a  piece  of  impertinence  to  call  him  "  Steve,"  of 
course,  and  M-hen  other  people  were  there  it  was  "  Mr. 
Brant,"  but  in  their  own  privacy  it  was  their  own  affair. 
Peter  slipped  down  from  his  chair,  and  Stephen  sat  down 
on  it,  and  then  Peter  was  lifted  up  and  leant  his  head  Iiack 
somewhere  against  the  middle  button  of  Stephen's  waistcoat, 
just  where  his  heart  was  noisiest,  and  he  could   feci  the 


SCAW  HOUSE  17 

hard  outline  of  Stephen's  enormous  silver  watch  that  his 
family  had  had,  so  Stephen  said,  for  a  hundred  years.  Now 
was  the  blissful  time,  the  perfect  moment.  The  rest  of  the 
world  was  busied  with  life — the  window  showed  the  dull  and 
then  suddenly  shining  flakes  of  snow,  the  lights  and  the 
limitless  sea — the  room  showed  the  sanded  floor,  the  crowd 
of  fishermen  drinking,  their  feet  moving  already  to  the  tune 
of  the  fiddle,  the  fisher  girls  with  their  coloured  shawls,  the 
great,  swinging  smoky  lamp,  the  huge  fire,  Dicky  the  fool. 
Mother  Figgis,  fat  Sam  the  host,  old  Frosted  Moses  .  .  . 
the  gay  romantic  world — and  these  two  in  their  corner,  and 
Peter  so  happy  that  no  beatings  in  the  world  could  terrify. 

"  But,  boy,"  says  Stephen,  bending  down  so  that  the  end 
of  his  beard  tickles  Peter's  neck,  "  what  are  yer  doing  here 
so  late  ?     Your  father   .    .    .    }  " 

"  I'm  going  back  to  be  beaten,  of  course." 

"  If  yer  go  now  perhaps  yer  won't  be  beaten  so  bad.?  " 

"Oh,  Steve!  .  .  .I'm  staying  .  .  .  like  this  .  .  . 
always." 

But  Peter  knew,  in  spite  of  the  way  that  the  big  brown 
hand  pressed  his  white  one  in  sympathy,  that  Stephen  was 
worried  and  that  he  was  thinking  of  something.  He  knew, 
although  he  could  not  see,  that  Stephen's  eyes  were  staring 
right  across  the  room  and  that  they  were  looking,  in  the  way 
that  they  had,  past  walls  and  windows  and  streets — some- 
where for  something   .    ,    . 

Peter  knew  a  little  about  Stephen's  trouble.  He  did  not 
understand  it  altogether,  but  he  had  seen  the  change  in 
Stephen,  and  he  knew  that  he  was  often  very  sad,  and 
that  moods  came  upon  him  when  he  could  do  nothing  but 
think  and  watch  and  wait — and  then  his  face  grew  very 
grey  and  his  eyes  very  hard,  and  his  hands  were  clenched. 
Peter  knew  that  Stephen  had  an  enemy,  and  that  one  day  he 
would  meet  him. 

Some  of  the  men  and  girls  were  dancing  now  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  room.  The  floor  and  the  walls  shook  a  little  with 
the  noise  that  the  heavy  boots  of  the  fishermen  made  and 
the  smoky  lamp  swung  from  side  to  side.  The  heat  was 
great  and  some  one  opened  the  window  and  the  snow  came 
swirling,  in  little  waves  and  eddies,  in  and  out,  blown  by  the 
breeze — dark  and  heavy  outside  against  the  clouded  sky, 


18  FORTITUDE 

white  and  delicate  and  swiftly  vanishing  in  the  room.  Dicky 
the  fool  came  across  the  floor  and  talked  to  Stephen  in  his 
smiling,  rambling  way.  People  pitied  Dicky  and  shook 
their  heads  when  his  name  was  mentioned,  but  Peter  never 
could  understand  this  because  the  Fool  seemed  always  to  be 
happy  and  cheerful,  and  he  saw  so  many  things  that  other 
people  never  saw  at  all.  It  was  only  when  he  was  drunk 
that  he  was  unhappy,  and  he  was  pleased  with  such  very 
little  things,  and  he  told  such  wonderful  stories. 

Stephen  was  always  kind  to  the  Fool,  and  the  Fool  wor- 
shipped him,  but  to-night  Peter  saw  that  he  was  paying  no 
heed  to  the  Fool's  talk.  The  Fool  had  a  story  about  three 
stars  that  he  had  seen  rolling  down  the  Grey  Hill,  and  be- 
hold, when  they  got  to  the  bottom — "  httle  bright  nickety 
things,  like  new  saxpennies — it  was  suddenly  so  dark  that 
Dicky  had  to  light  his  lantern  and  grope  his  way  home  with 
that,  and  all  the  frogs  began  croaking  down  in  the  marsh 
'  something  terrible  ' — now  what  was  the  meaning  of  that?  " 

But  Stephen  was  paying  no  attention.  His  eyes  were  set 
on  the  open  window  and  the  drifting  snow.  Men  came  in 
stamping  their  great  boots  on  the  floor  and  rubbing  their 
hands  together — the  fiddle  was  playing  more  madly  than  ever 
— and  at  every  moment  some  couple  would  stop  under  the 
mistletoe  and  the  girl  would  scream  and  laugh,  and  the 
man's  kiss  could  be  heard  all  over  the  room;  through  the 
open  window  came  the  sound  of  church  bells. 

Stephen  bent  down  and  whispered  in  the  boy's  ear: 
"  Yer'd  best  be  going  now,  Peter,  lad.  'Tis  half-past  nine 
and,  chance,  if  yer  go  back  now  yer  lickin'  'ull  not  be  so 
bad." 

But  Peter  whispered  back :  "  Not  yet,  Stephen — a  little 
while  longer." 

Peter  was  tremendously  excited.  He  could  never  remem- 
ber being  quite  so  excited  before.  It  was  all  very  thrilhng^ 
of  course,  with  the  dancing  and  the  music  and  the  lights, 
but  there  was  more  than  that  in  it.  Stephen  was  so  unlike 
himself,  but  then  possibly  Christmas  made  him  sad,  because 
he  would  be  thinking  of  last  Christmas  and  the  happy  time 
that  he  had  had  because  his  girl  had  been  with  him — but 
there  was  more  than  that  in  it.  Then,  suddenly,  a  curiour 
thing  happened  to  Peter.     He  was  not  asleep,  he  was  not 


SCAW  HOUSE  191 

even  drowsy — he  was  sitting  with  his  eyes  wide  open^  star- 
ing at  the  window.  He  saw  the  window  with  its  dark 
frame,  and  he  saw  the  snow  .  .  .  and  then,  in  an  instant, 
the  room,  the  people,  the  music,  the  tramping  of  feet,  the 
roar  of  voices,  these  things  were  all  swept  away,  and  instead 
there  was  absolute  stillness,  only  the  noise  that  a  little  wind 
makes  when  it  rustles  through  the  blades  of  grass,  and  above 
him  rose  the  Grey  Hill  with  its  funny  sugar-loaf  top  and 
against  it  heavy  black  clouds  were  driving — outlined  sharply 
against  the  sky  was  the  straight  stone  pillar  that  stood  on 
the  summit  of  the  Grey  Hill  and  was  called  by  the  people 
the  Giant's  Finger.  He  could  hear  some  sheep  crying  in  the 
distance  and  the  tinkling  of  their  bells.  Then  suddenly 
the  picture  was  swept  away,  and  the  room  and  the  people 
and  the  dancing  were  before  him  and  around  him  once  more. 
He  was  not  surprised  by  this — ^it  had  happened  to  him  be- 
fore at  the  most  curious  times,  he  had  seen,  in  the  same  way, 
the  Grey  Hill  and  the  Giant's  Finger  and  he  had  felt  the 
cold  wind  about  his  neck,  and  always  something  had  hap- 
pened. 

"  Stephen,"  he  whispered,  "  Stephen — " 

But  Stephen's  hand  was  crushing  his  hand  like  an  iron 
glove,  and  Stephen's  eyes  were  staring,  like  the  eyes  of  a 
wild  animal,  at  the  door.  A  man,  a  short,  square  man  with 
a  muffler  round  his  throat,  and  a  little  mouth  and  little  ears, 
had  come  in  and  was  standing  by  the  door,  looking  round 
the  room. 

Stephen  whispered  gently  in  Peter's  ear :  "  Rim  home, 
Peter  boy,"  and  he  kissed  him  very  softly  on  the  cheek — 
then  he  put  him  down  on  the  floor. 

Stephen  rose  from  his  chair  and  stood  for  an  instant 
staring  at  the  door.  Then  he  walked  across  the  room, 
brushing  the  people  aside,  and  tapped  the  little  man  with 
the  muffler  on  the  shoulder: 

"  Samuel  Burstead,"  he  said,  "  good  evenin'  to  yer." 


Ill 

All  the  room  seemed  to  cease  moving  and  talking  at  the 
moment  when  Stephen  Brant  said  that.  They  stood  where 
they  were  like  the  people  in  the  Sleeping  Beauty,  and  Peter 


20  FORTITUDE 

climbed  up  on  to  his  chair  again  to  see  what  was  gping  to 
happen.  He  pulled  up  his  stockings,  and  then  sat  forward 
in  his  chair  with  his  eyes  gazing  at  Stephen  and  his  hands 
very  tightly  clenched.  When,  afterwards,  he  grew  up  and 
thought  at  all  about  his  childhood,  this  scene  always  re- 
mained, ovtT  and  beyond  all  the  others.  He  wondered 
sometimes  why  it  was  that  he  remembered  it  all  so  clearly, 
that  he  had  it  so  dramatically  and  forcibly  before  him,  when 
many  more  recent  happenings  were  clouded  and  dull,  but 
when  he  was  older  he  knew  that  it  was  because  it  stood  for 
so  much  of  his  life,  it  was  because  that  Christmas  Eve  in 
those  dim  days  was  really  the  beginning  of  everything,  and 
in  the  later  interpretation  of  it  so  much  might  be  understood. 

But,  to  a  boy  of  that  age,  the  things  that  stood  out  were 
not,  of  necessity,  the  right  things  and  any  imreality  that  it 
might  have  had  was  due  perhaps  to  his  fastening  on  the  in- 
cidental, fantastic  things  that  a  small  child  notices,  always 
more  vividly  than  a  grown  person.  In  the  very  first  instant 
of  Stephen's  speaking  to  the  man  with  the  muffler  it  was 
Dicky  the  Fool's  open  mouth  and  staring  eyes  that  showed 
Peter  how  important  it  was.  The  Fool  had  risen  from  his 
chair  and  was  standing  leaning  forward,  his  back  black 
against  the  blazing  fire,  his  siUy  mouth  agape  and  great 
terror  in  his  eyes.  Being  odd  in  his  mind,  he  felt  perhaps 
something  in  the  air  that  the  others  did  not  feel,  and  Peter 
seemed  to  catch  fright  from  his  staring  eyes. 

The  man  at  the  door  had  turned  round  when  Stephen 
Brant  spoke  to  him,  and  had  pushed  his, way  out  of  the 
crowd  of  men  and  stood  alone  fingering  bis  neck. 

"  I'm  here,  Stephen  Brant,  if  yer  want  me." 

Sam  Figgis  came  forward  then  and  said  something  to 
Stephen,  and  then  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  went  back 
to  his  wife.  He  seemed  to  feel  that  no  one  could  interfere 
between  the  two  men — it  was  too  late  for  interference. 
Then  things  happened  very  quickly.  Peter  saw  that  they 
had  all — men  and  women — crowded  back  against  the  benches 
and  the  wall  and  were  watching,  very  silently  and  with  great 
excitement.  He  found  it  very  difficult  to  see,  but  he  bent 
his  head  and  peered  through  the  legs  of  a  big  fisherman  in 
front  of  him.  He  was  sliaking  all  over  his  body.  Stephen 
had  never  before  appeared  so  terrible  to  him;  he  had  seen 


SCAW  HOUSE  n 

him  when  he  was  very  angry  and  when  he  was  cross  and  ill- 
tempered,  but  now  he  was  very  ominous  in  his  quiet  way,  and 
his  eyes  seemed  to  have  changed  colour.  The  small  boy 
could  only  see  the  middle  of  the  floor  and  pieces  of  legs  and 
skirts  and  trousers,  but  he  knew  by  the  feeling  in  the  room 
that  Stephen  and  the  little  man  were  going  to  fight.  Then 
he  moved  his  head  round  and  saw  between  two  shoulders,  and 
he  saw  that  the  two  men  were  stripping  to  the  waist.  The 
centre  of  the  room  was  cleared,  and  Sam  Figgis  came  for- 
ward to  speak  to  Stephen  again,  and  this  time  there  was 
more  noise,  and  the  people  began  to  shout  out  loud  and  the 
men  grew  more  and  more  excited.  There  had  often  been 
fights  in  that  room  before,  and  Peter  had  witnessed  one  or 
two,  but  there  had  never  been  this  solemnity  and  ceremony 
— every  one  was  very  grave.  It  did  not  occur  to  Peter  that  it 
was  odd  that  it  should  be  allowed;  no  one  thought  of  police- 
men twenty  years  ago  in  Treliss  and  Sam  Figgis  was  more 
of  a  monarch  in  The  Bending  Mule  than  Queen  Victoria. 
And  now  two  of  the  famous  old  chairs  were  placed  at  op- 
posite corners,  and  quite  silently  two  men,  with  serious  faces, 
as  though  this  were  the  most  important  hour  of  their  life, 
stood  behind  them.  Stephen  and  the  other  man,  stripped 
to  their  short  woollen  drawers,  came  into  the  middle  of  the 
room.  Stephen  had  hair  all  over  his  chest,  and  his  arms 
and  his  neck  were  tremendous;  and  Peter,  as  he  looked  at 
him  thought  that  he  must  be  the  strongest  man  in  the  world. 
His  enemy  was  smooth  and  shiny,  but  he  seemed  very  strong, 
and  you  could  see  the  muscles  of  his  arms  and  legs  move 
under  his  skin.  Some  one  had  marked  a  circle  with  chalk, 
and  all  the  men  and  women,  quite  silent  now,  made  a  dark 
line  along  the  wall.  The  lamp  in  the  middle  of  the  room 
was  still  swinging  a  little,  and  they  had  forgotten  to  close  the 
window,  so  that  the  snow,  which  was  falling  more  lightly 
now,  came  in  little  clouds  with  breaths  of  wind,  into  the 
room — and  the  bells  were  yet  pealing  and  could  be  heard 
very  plainly  against  the  silence. 

Then  Sam  Figgis,  who  was  standing  with  his  legs  wide 
apart,  said  something  that  Peter  could  not  catch,  and  a  little 
sigh  of  excitement  went  up  all  round  the  room.  Peter,  who 
was  clutching  his  chair  with  both  hands,  and  choking,  very 
painfully,  in  his  throat,  knew,  although  he  had  no  reason  for 


S£  FORTITUDE 

lis  knowledge,  that  the  little  man  with  the  shining  chest 
meant  to  kill  Stephen  if  he  could. 

The  two  men  moved  round  the  circle  very  slowly  with 
their  fists  clenched  and  their  eyes  watching  every  movement 
— then,  suddenly,  they  closed.  At  once  Peter  saw  that  the 
little  man  was  very  clever,  cleverer  than  Stephen.  He 
moved  with  amazing  quickness.  Stephen's  blows  came  like 
sledge-hammers,  and  sometimes  they  fell  with  a  dull  heavy 
sound  on  the  other  man's  face  and  on  his  chest,  but  more 
often  they  missed  altogether.  The  man  seemed  to  be  every- 
where at  once,  and  although  the  blows  that  he  gave  Stephen 
seemed  to  have  little  effect  yet  he  got  past  the  other's  de- 
fence again  and  again. 

Then,  again,  the  figures  in  front  of  Peter  closed  in  and 
he  saw  nothing.  He  stood  on  his  chair — no  one  noticed 
him  now — but  he  could  not  see.  His  face  was  very  white, 
and  his  stockings  had  fallen  down  over  his  boots,  but  with 
every  movement  he  was  growing  more  afraid.  He  caught 
an  instant's  vision  of  Stephen's  face,  and  he  saw  that  it 
was  white  and  that  he  was  breathing  hard.  The  room 
seemed  to  be  ominously  silent,  and  then  men  would  break 
out  into  strange  threatening  sounds,  and  Peter  could  see 
one  woman — a  young  girl — with  a  red  shawl  about  her 
shoulders,  her  back  against  the  wall,  staring  with  a  white 
face. 

He  could  not  see — he  could  not  see  .  .  . 

He  murmured  once  very  politely — he  thought  he  said  it 
aloud  but  it  was  really  under  his  breath:  "  Please,  please 
— would  you  mind — if  you  stood  aside — just  a  little  ..." 
but  tlic  man  in  front  of  him  was  absorbed  and  heard  noth- 
ing. Then  he  knew  that  there  was  a  pause,  he  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  brick  floor  and  he  saw  that  Stephen  was 
sitting  back  in  his  chair — his  face  was  white,  and  blood 
was  trickling  out  from  the  corner  of  his  mouth  on  to  his 
beard.  Then  Peter  remembered  old  Frosted  Moses'  words: 
"  The  courage  you  bring  to  it  ...  "  and  he  sat  back  in 
his  chair  again  and,  with  hands  clenched,  waited.  He 
would  be  brave,  braver  than  he  had  ever  been  before,  and 
perhaps  in  some  strange  way  his  bravery  would  help 
Stephen.  He  determined  with  all  the  power  that  he  had 
to  be  brave.     They  had  begun  again,  he  heard  the  sound 


SCAW  HOUSE  23 

of  the  blows,  the  movement  of  the  men's  feet  on  the  rough 
brick  of  the  floor;  people  cried  out,  the  man  in  front  of  him 
pressed  forward  and  he  had  a  sudden  view.  Stephen  was 
on  one  knee  and  his  head  was  down  and  the  other  man 
was  standing  over  him.  It  was  all  over — Stephen  was 
beaten — Stephen  would  be  killed,  and  in  another  minute 
Peter  would  have  pushed  past  the  people  and  run  into  the 
middle  of  the  room,  but  Sam  Figgis  had  again  come  for- 
ward, and  the  two  men  were  in  their  chairs  again.  There 
followed  another  terrible  time  when  Peter  could  see  noth- 
ing. He  waited — he  could  hear  them  moving  again,  the 
noise  of  their  breathing  and  of  their  feet,  the  men  in  the 
crowd  were  pressing  nearer,  but  there  was  no  word  spoken. 

He  must  see — at  all  costs  he  must  see.  And  he  climbed 
down  from  his  chair,  and  crept  unnoticed  towards  the 
front.  Nobody  saw  him  or  realised  him.  .  .  .  Stephen  was 
bending  back,  he  seemed  to  be  slowly  sinking  down.  The 
other  man,  from  whose  face  blood  was  now  streaming,  was 
pressing  on  to  him.  Peter  knew  that  it  was  all  over  and 
that  there  was  no  hope;  there  was  a  dreadful  cold,  hard 
pain  in  his  throat,  and  he  could  scarcely  see.  Courage!  he 
must  have  it  for  Stephen.  With  every  bit  of  his  soul  and 
his  mind  and  his  body  he  was  brave.  He  stood  taut — his 
little  legs  stiflT  beneath  him  and  flung  defiance  at  the  world. 
He  and  Stephen  were  fighting  that  shiny  man  together — ■ 
both  of  them — now.  Courage!  Stephen's  head  lifted  a 
little,  and  then  slowly  Peter  saw  him  pulling  his  body  to- 
gether— he  grew  rigid,  he  raised  his  head,  and,  as  a  tree 
falls,  his  fist  crashed  into  his  enemy's  face.  The  man 
dropped  without  a  word  and  lay  motionless.  It  was  over. 
Stephen  gravely  watched  for  a  moment  the  senseless  body 
and  then  sat  back  in  his  chair,  his  head  bowed  on  his  chest. 

The  fight  had  not,  perhaps,  been  like  that — there  must 
have  been  many  other  things  that  happened,  but  that  was 
always  how  Peter  remembered  it.  And  now  there  was  con- 
fusion— a  great  deal  of  noise  and  people  talking  very 
loudly,  but  Stephen  said  nothing  at  all.  He  did  not  look 
at  the  body  again,  but  when  he  had  recovered  a  little,  still 
without  a  word  to  any  one  and  with  his  eyes  grave  and 
without  expression,  he  moved  to  the  corner  where  his  clothea 
lay. 


U  FORTITUDE 

"  'E's  not  dead." 

"  No — give  'im  room  there,  he's  moving,"  and  from  the 
back  of  the  crowd  the  Fool's  silly  face,  peering  over  .  .  . 

Peter  crept  unnoticed  to  the  door.  The  clocks  were  strik- 
ing ten,  and  some  one  in  the  street  was  singing.  He  pulled 
up  his  stockings  and  fastened  his  garters,  then  he  slipped 
out  into  the  snow  and  saw  that  the  sky  was.  full  of  stars 
and  that  the  storm  had  passed. 


CHAPTER  II 
HOW  THE  WESTCOTT  FAMILY  SAT  UP  FOR  PETER 


THE  boy  always  reckoned  that,  walking  one's  quickest, 
it  took  half  an  hour  from  the  door  of  The  Bending 
Mule  to  Scaw  House,  where  his  father  lived.  If  a  person 
ran  all  the  way  twenty  minutes  would  perhaps  cover  it,  but, 
most  of  the  time,  the  road  went  up  hill  and  that  made  run- 
ning difficult;  he  had  certainly  no  intention  of  running  to- 
night, there  were  too  many  things  to  think  about.  That 
meant,  then,  that  he  would  arrive  home  about  half-past  ten, 
and  there  would  be  his  aunt  and  his  grandfather  and  his 
father  sitting  up  waiting  for  him. 

The  world  was  very  silent,  and  the  snow  lay  on  the 
round  cobbles  of  the  steep  street  with  a  bright  shining 
whiteness  against  the  black  houses  and  the  dark  night  sky. 
Treliss'  principal  street  was  deserted;  all  down  the  hill  red 
lights  showed  in  the  windows  and  voices  could  be  heard, 
singing  and  laughing,  because  on  Christmas  Eve  there  would 
be  parties  and  merrymakings.  Peter  looked  a  tiny  and 
rather  desolate  figure  against  the  snow  as  he  climbed  the 
hill.  There  was  a  long  way  to  go.  There  would  be  Green 
Street  at  the  top,  past  the  post  office,  then  down  again  into 
the  Square  where  the  Tower  was,  then  through  winding 
turnings  up  the  hill  past  the  gates  and  dark  trees  of  The 
Man  at  Arnjs,  then  past  the  old  wall  of  the  town  and 
along  the  wide  high  road  that  rims  above  the  sea  until  at 
last  one  struck  the  common,  and,  hidden  in  a  black  clump 
of  trees  (so  black  on  a  night  like  this),  the  grim  grey 
stones  of  Scaw  House. 

Peter  was  not  afraid  of  being  alone,  although  when  snow 
had  fallen  everything  seemed  strange  and  monstrous,  the 
trees  were  like  animals,  and  the  paths  of  all  the  world  were 
swept  away.  But  he  was  not  afraid  of  ghosts;  he  was  too 
accustomed  to  their  perpetual  company;  old  Frosted  Moses 
and  Dicky,  and  even  men  like  Stephen,  had  seen  ghosts  so 


26  FORTITUDE 

often,  and  Peter  himself  could  tell  odd  stories  about  the 
Grey  Hill — no,  ghosts  held  no  terror.  But,  very  slowly,  the 
shadow  of  all  that  he  must  very  soon  go  through  was  creeping 
about  him.  When  he  tirst  came  out  of  The  Bending  Mule 
he  still  was  as  though  he  were  in  a  dream.  Everything 
that  had  happened  there  that  evening  had  been  so  strange, 
so  amazing,  that  it  belonged  to  the  world  of  dreams — it  was 
of  the  very  stuff  of  them,  and  that  vision  of  Stephen,  naked, 
bleeding,  so  huge  and  so  terrible,  was  not  to  be  easily  for- 
gotten. 

But,  as  he  climbed  the  steep  street,  Peter  knew  that 
however  great  a  dream  that  might  be,  there  was  to  be  no 
dreaming  at  all  about  his  meeting  with  his  father,  and  old 
Frosted  Moses'  philosophy  would  be  very  sadly  needed. 
As  he  climbed  the  hill  the  reaction  from  the  excitement  of 
his  late  adventure  suddenly  made  him  very  miserable  in- 
deed, so  that  he  had  an  immediate  impulse  to  cry,  but  he 
stood  still  in  the  middle  of  the  street  and  made  fists  with 
his  hands  and  called  himself  "  a  damned  gawky  idiot," 
words  that  he  had  admired  in  the  mouth  of  Sam  Figgis  some 
days  before.  "  Gawky  "  was  certainly  the  last  thing  that 
he  was,  but  it  was  a  nice  queer  word,  and  it  helped  him  a 
great  deal. 

The  worst  of  everything  was  that  he  had  had  a  number 
of  beatings  lately  and  the  world  could  not  possibly  go  on, 
as  far  as  he  was  concerned,  if  he  had  many  more.  Every 
beating  made  matters  worse  and  his  own  desperate  at- 
tempts to  be  good  and  to  merit  rewards  rather  than  chas- 
tisement met  with  no  success.  The  hopeless  fact  of  it  all 
was  that  it  had  very  little  to  do  with  his  own  actions;  his 
father  behaved  in  the  same  way  to  every  one,  and  Mrs. 
Trussit,  the  housekeeper,  old  Curtis  the  gardener.  Aunt 
Jessie,  and  all  the  ser^•ants,  shook  under  his  tongue  and  the 
cold  glitter  of  his  eyes,  and  certainly  the  maids  would 
long  ago  have  given  notice  and  departed  were  it  not  that 
they  were  all  afraid  to  face  him.  Peter  knew  that  that 
was  true,  because  Mrs.  Trussit  had  told  him  so.  It  was 
this  hopeless  feeling  of  indiscriminate  punishment  that  made 
everything  so  bad.  Until  he  was  eight  years  old  Peter 
had  not  been  beaten  at  all,  but  when  he  was  very  young 
Indeed   he   had    learnt   to  crawl   away   when   he   heard   his 


SCAW  HOUSE  9H 

father's  step,  and  he  had  never  cried  as  a  baby  because  his 
nurse's  white  scared  face  had  frightened  him  so.  And 
then,  of  course,  there  was  his  mother,  his  poor  mother — 
that  was  another  reason  for  silence.  He  never  saw  his 
mother  for  more  than  a  minute  at  a  time  because  she  was 
ill,  had  been  ill  for  as  long  as  he  could  remember.  When 
he  was  younger  he  had  been  taken  into  his  mother's  room 
once  or  twice  a  week  by  Mrs.  Trussit,  and  he  had  bent 
down  and  kissed  that  white  tired  face,  and  he  had  smelt 
the  curious  smell  in  the  room  of  flowers  and  medicine,  and 
he  had  heard  his  mother's  voice,  very  far  away  and  very 
soft,  and  he  had  crept  out  again.  When  he  was  older  his 
aunt  told  him  sometimes  to  go  and  see  his  mother,  and  he 
would  creep  in  alone,  but  he  never  could  say  anything  be- 
cause the  whiteness  of  the  room  and  the  sense  of  something 
sacred  like  church  froze  his  speech.  He  had  never  seen 
his   father  and  mother  together. 

His  mornings  were  always  spent  with  old  ParIow,'and 
in  the  afternoon  he  was  allowed  to  ramble  about  by  him- 
self, so  that  it  was  only  at  mealtimes  and  during  the  horri- 
ble half-hour  after  supper  before  he  went  up  to  bed  that 
he  saw  his   father. 

He  really  saw  more  of  old  Curtis  the  gardener,  but  half 
an  hour  with  his  father  could  seem  a  very  long  time. 
Throughout  the  rest  of  his  life  that  half-hour  after  supper 
remained  at  the  back  of  his  mind — and  he  never  forgot  its 
slightest  detail.  The  hideous  dining-room  with  the  large 
photographs  of  old  grandfather  and  grandmother  Westcott 
in  ill-fitting  clothes  and  heavy  gilt  frames,  the  white  marble 
clock  on  the  mantelpiece,  a  clock  that  would  tick  solemnly 
for  twenty  minutes  and  then  give  a  little  run  and  a  jump 
for  no  reason  at  all,  the  straight  horsehair  sofa  so  black 
and  uncomfortable  with  its  hard  wooden  back,  the  big  din- 
ing-room table  with  its  green  cloth  (faded  a  little  in  the 
middle  where  a  pot  with  a  fern  in  it  always  stood)  and  his 
aunt  with  her  frizzy  yellow  hair,  her  black  mittens  and  her 
long  bony  fingers  playing  her  interminable  Patience,  and 
then  two  arm-chairs  by  the  fire,  in  one  of  them  old  grand- 
father Westcott,  almost  invisible  beneath  a  load  of  rugs  and 
cushions  and  only  the  white  hairs  on  the  top  of  his  head 
sticking  out  like  some  strange  plant,  and  in  the  other  chair 


its  FORTITUDE 

his  father,  motionless,  reading  the  Cornish  Times — last  of 
all,  sitting  up  straight  with  his  work  in  front  of  him,  afraid 
to  move,  afraid  to  cough,  sometimes  with  pins  and  needles, 
sometimes  with  a  maddening  impulse  to  sneeze,  always  with 
fascinated  glances  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  at  his  father 
— Peter  himself.  How  happy  he  was  when  the  marble 
clock  struck  nine,  and  he  was  released!  How  snug  and 
friendly  his  little  attic  bedroom  was  with  its  funny  diamond- 
paned  window  under  the  shelving  roof  with  all  the  view  of 
the  common  and  the  distant  hills  that  covered  Truro! 
There,  at  any  rate,  he  was  free! 

He  M'as  passing  now  through  the  Square,  and  he  stopped 
/      for   an   instant   and   looked   up   at   the   old   weather-beaten 
i      Tower  that  guarded  one  side  of  it,  and  looked  so  fine  and 
stately  now  with  the  white  snow  at  its  foot  and  the  gleam- 
ing sheet  of  stars  at  its  back.     That  old  Tower  had  stood 
a  good  number  of  beatings  in  its  day — it  knew  well  enough 
what  courage  was — and  so  Peter,  as  he  turned  up  the  hill, 
V  squared  his  shoulders  and  set  his  teeth.     But  in  some  way 
ihat  he  was  too  young  to  understand  he  felt  that  it  was  not 
/  the*  beating  itself  that  frightened  him  most,  but  rather  all 
I   the  circumstances  that  attended  it — it  was  even  the  dark 
I    house,  the  band  of  trees  about  it,  that  first  dreadful  moment 
when  he  would  hear  his  knock  echo  through  the  passages, 
and  then  the  patter  of  Mrs.  Trussit's  slippers  as  she  came 
to  open  the  door  for  him — then  Mrs.  Trussit's  fat  arm  and 
the  candle  raised  above  her  head,  and  "  Oh,  it's  you,  Mr. 
Peter,"  and  then  the  opening  of  the  dining-room  door  and 
"  It's  Master  Peter,  sir,"  and  then  that  vision  of  the  mar- 
ble clock  and  his  father's   face  behind  the  paper.     These 
things  were  unfair  and  more  than  any  one  deserved.     He 
had  had  beatings  on  se\'eral  occasions  when  he  had  merited 
no  punishment  at  all,  but  it  did  not  make  things  any  better 
that  on  this  occasion  he  did  deserve  it;  it  only  made  that 
feeling  inside  his  chest  that  everything  was  so  hopeless  that 
nothing  whatever  mattered,  and  that  it  was  always   more 
fun  to  be  beaten  for  a  sheep  than  a  Iamb,  stronger  than 
ever. 

But  the  world — or  at  any  rate  the  Scaw  House  portion 
of  it — could  not  move  in  this  same  round  eternally.  Some- 
thing would  happen,  and  the  vagae,  half -confessed  intention 


SCAW  HOUSE  129 

that  had  been  in  his  mind  for  some  time  now  was  a  little 
more  defined.  One  day^  like  his  three  companions,  Tom 
Jones,  Peregrine  Pickle  and  David  Copperfield,  he  would 
run  into  the  world  and  seek  his  fortune,  and  then,  after- 
wards, he  would  write  his  book  of  adventures  as  they  had 
done.  His  heart  beat  at  the  thought,  and  he  passed  the 
high  gates  and  dark  trees  of  The  Man  at  Arms  with  quick 
step  and  head  high.  He  was  growing  old — twelve  was  an 
age — and  there  would  soon  be  a  time  when  beatings  must 
no  longer  be  endured.  He  shivered  when  he  thought  of 
what  would  happen  then — the  mere  idea  of  defying  his 
father  sent  shudders  down  his  back,  but  he  was  twelve,  he 
would  soon  be  thirteen.  .  .  . 

But  this  Scaw  House,  with  its  strange  silence  and  dis- 
tresses, was  only  half  his  life.  There  was  the  other  ex- 
istence that  he  had  down  in  the  town,  out  at  Stephen's 
farm,  wandering  alone  on  the  Grey  Hill,  roaming  about 
along  the  beach  and  in  amongst  the  caves,  tramping  out  to 
The  Hearty  Cow,  a  little  inn  amongst  the  gorse,  ten  miles 
away,  or  looking  for  the  lost  church  among  the  sand-dunes 
at  Porthperran.  All  these  things  had  nothing  whatever  to 
do  with  his  father  and  old  Parlow  and  his  lessons — and  it 
was  undoubtedly  this  other  sort  of  life  that  he  would  lead, 
with  the  gipsies  and  the  tramps,  when  the  time  came  for 
him  to  run  away.  He  knew  no  other  children  of  his  own 
age,  but  he  did  not  want  them;  he  liked  best  to  talk  to  old 
Curtis  the  gardener,  to  Dicky  the  Idiot,  to  Sam  Figgis 
when  that  splendid  person  would  permit  it — and,  of  course, 
to  Stephen. 

He  passed  the  old  town  wall  and  stepped  out  into  the 
high  road.  Far  below  him  was  the  sea,  above  him  a  sky 
scattered  with  shining  stars  and  around  him  a  white  dim 
world.  Turning  a  corner  the  road  lay  straight  before  him 
and  to  the  right  along  the  common  was  the  black  clump  of 
trees  that  hid  his  home.  He  discovered  that  he  was  very 
tired,  it  had  been  a  most  exhausting  day  with  old  Parlow 
so  cross  in  the  morning  and  the  scene  in  the  inn  at  night 
— and  now — ! 

His  steps  fell  slower  and  slower  as  he  passed  along  the 
road.  One  hot  hand  was  clutching  Parlow's  note  and  in 
his  throat  there  was  a  sharp  pain  that  made  it  difficult  to 


so  FORTITUDE 

swallow,  and  his  eyes  were  burning.  Suppose  he  never 
went  home  at  all!  Supposing  he  went  off  to  Stephen's 
farm ! — it  was  a  long  way  and  he  might  lose  his  way  in  the 
snow,  but  his  heart  beat  like  a  hammer  when  he  thought  of 
Stephen  coming  to  the  door  and  of  the  little  spare  room 
where  Stephen  put  his  guests  to  sleep.  But  no — Stephen 
would  not  want  him  to-night;  he  would  be  very  tired  and 
would  rather  be  alone;  and  then  there  would  be  the  morn- 
ing, when  it  would  be  every  bit  as  bad,  and  j)erhaps  worse. 
But  if  he  ran  away  altogether?  .  .  .  He  stopped  in  the 
middle  of  the  road  and  thought  about  it — the  noise  of  the 
sea  came  up  to  him  like  the  march  of  men  and  with  it 
the  sick  melancholy  moan  of  the  Bell  Rock,  but  the  rest  of 
the  world  was  holding  its  breath,  so  still  it  seemed.  But 
whither  should  he  run.''  He  could  not  run  so  far  away  that 
his  father  could  not  find  him — his  father's  arm  stretched  to 
e\-erywhere  in  the  world.  And  then  it  was  cowardly  to  run 
away.  Where  was  that  courage  of  which  he  had  been 
thinking  so  much.^  So  he  shook  his  little  shoulders  and 
pulled  up  those  stockings  again  and  turned  up  the  little 
side  road,  usually  so  full  of  ruts  and  stones  and  now  so 
level  and  white  with  the  hard  snow.  Now  that  his  mind 
was  made  up,  he  marched  forward  with  unfaltering  step  and 
clanged  tlie  iron  gates  behind  him  so  that  they  made  a  hor- 
rible noise,  and  stepped  through  the  desolate  garden  up  the 
gravel  path. 

The  house  looked  black  and  grim,  but  there  were  lights 
behind  the  dining-room  windows — it  was  there  that  they 
were  sitting,  of  course. 

As  he  stood  on  his  toes  to  reach  the  knocker  a  shooting 
•tar  flashed  past  above  his  head,  and  he  could  hear  the 
bare  branches  of  the  trees  knocking  against  one  another  in 
the  wind  that  always  seemed  to  be  whistling  round  the 
house.  The  noise  echoed  terribly  through  the  building,  and 
then  there  was  a  silence  that  was  even  more  terrible.  He 
could  fancy  how  his  aunt  would  start  and  put  down  her 
Patience  cards  for  a  moment  and  look,  in  her  scared  way, 
at  the  window — he  knew  that  his  father  would  not  move 
from  behind  his  paper,  and  that  there  would  be  no  other 
•ound  unless  his  grandfather  awoke.  He  heard  Mrs. 
Truuit's  steps  down  the  passage,  then  locks  were  turned. 


SCAW  HOUSE  81 

tie  great  <3oor  swung  slowly  open,  and  He  saw  fier,  as  he 
had  pictured  it,  with  a  candle  in  her  hand  raised  above  her 
head,  peering  into  the  dark. 

"  Oh !  it's  you.  Master  Peter,"  and  she  stood  aside,  with- 
out another  word,  to  let  him  in.  He  slipped  past  her,  si- 
lently, into  the  hall  and,  after  a  second's  pause,  she  fol- 
lowed him  in,  banging  the  hall  door  behind  her.  Then  she 
opened  the  dining-room  door  announcing,  grimly,  "  It's 
Master  Peter  come  in,  sir."  The  marble  clock  struck  half- 
past  ten  as  she  spoke. 

He  stood  just  inside  the  door  blinking  a  little  at  the 
sudden  light  and  twisting  his  cloth  cap  round  and  round  in 
his  hands.  He  couldn't  see  anything  at  first,  and  he  could 
not  collect  his  thoughts.  At  last  he  said,  in  a  very  little 
voice : 

"  I've  come  back,  father." 

The  Hghts  settled  before  his  eyes,  and  he  saw  them  all 
exactly  as  he  had  thought  they  would  be.  His  father  had 
not  looked  up  from  his  paper,  and  Peter  could  see  the  round 
bald  patch  on  the  top  of  his  head.  Aunt  Jessie  was  talk- 
ing to  herself  about  her  cards  in  a  very  agitated  whisper 
— "  Now  it's  the  King  I  want — ^how  provoking !  Ah, 
there's  the  seven  of  spades,  and  the  six  and  the  five — oh 
dear!  it's  a  club,"  and  not  looking  up  at  all. 

No  one  answered  his  remark,  and  the  silence  was  broken 
by  his  grandfather  waking  up;  a  shrill  piping  voice  came 
from  out  of  the  rugs.  "Oh!  dear,  what  a  doze  I've  had! 
It  must  be  eight  o'clock!  What  a  doze  for  an  old  man  to 
have  t  on  such  a  cold  night  too,"  and  then  fell  asleep  again 
immediately. 

At  last  Peter  spoke  again  in  a  voice  that  seemed  to 
come  from  quite  another  person. 

"  Father — I've  come  back ! " 

His  father  very  slowly  put  down  his  newspaper  and 
looked  at  him  as  though  he  were  conscious  of  him  for  the 
first  time.  When  he  spoke  it  was  as  though  his  voice^ 
came  out  of  the  ceiling  or  the  floor  because  his  face  did  not 
seem  to  move  at  all. 

"  Where  have  you  been  ?  " 

"In  the  town,  father." 

"Come  here." 


Sft  FORTITUDE 

He  crossed  the  room  and  stood  in  front  of  the  fire  be- 
tween his  father  and  grandfather.  He  was  tremendously 
conscious  of  the  grim  and  dusty  cactus  plant  that  stood  on 
a  little  table  by  the  window. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  in  the  town  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  in  The  Bending  Mule,  father." 

"Why  did  you  not  come  home  before?" 

There  was  no  answer. 

"  You  knew  that  you  ought  to  come  home?  ** 

"  Yes,  father.  I  have  a  letter  for  you  from  Mr.  Par- 
low.  He  said  that  I  was  to  tell  you  that  I  have  done  my 
sums  very  badly  this  week  and  that  I  gave  Willie  DafFolI  a 
bleeding  nose  on  Wednesday — " 

"  Yes — have  you  any  excuse  for  these  things  ?  " 

"No,  father." 

**  Very  well.  You  may  go  up  to  your  room.  I  will 
OOme  up  to  you  there." 

••  Yes,  father." 

He  crossed  the  room  very  slowly,  closed  the  door  softly 
behind  him,  and  then  climbed  the  dark  stairs  to  his  attic. 


He  went  trembling  up  to  his  room,  and  the  match-box 
shook  in  his  hand  as  he  lit  his  candle.  It  was  only  the 
very  worst  beatings  that  happened  in  his  bedroom,  liis 
father's  gloomy  and  solemn  study  serving  as  a  background 
on  more  unimportant  occasions.  He  could  only  remember 
two  other  beatings  in  the  attics,  and  they  had  loth  been 
very  bad  ones.  He  closed  his  door  and  then  stood  in  the 
middle  of  the  room;  the  little  diamond-paned  window  was 
open  and  the  glittering  of  the  myriad  stars  flung  a  light 
over  his  room  and  shone  on  the  little  bracket  of  books  above 
his  bed  (a  Bible,  an  "  Arabian  Nights,"  and  tattered  copies  of 
"  David  Copperfield,"  "  Vanity  Fair,"  "  Peregrine  Pickle," 
"  Tom  Jones,"  and  "  Harry  Lorrequer  "),  on  the  little  wash- 
ing stand,  a  chest  of  drawers,  a  cane-bottomed  chair,  and  the 
little  bed.  There  were  no  pictures  on  the  walls  because  of 
the  sloping  roof,  but  there  were  two  china  vases  on  the  man- 
telpiece, and  they  were  painted  u  very  bright  blue  with  yellow 
flowers  on  them. 


SCAW  HOUSE  8S 

They  had  been  given  to  Peter  by  Mrs.  Flanders,  the 
Rector's  wife,  who  had  rather  a  kind  feeling  for  Peter,  and 
would  have  been  friendly  to  him  had  he  allowed  her.  He 
took  off  his  jacket  and  put  it  on  again,  he  stood  uncertainly 
in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  and  wondered  whether  he  ought 
to  undress  or  no.  There  was  no  question  about  it  now,  he 
was  horribly,  dreadfully  afraid.  That  wisdom  of  old 
Frosted  Moses  seemed  a  very  long  ago,  and  it  was  of  very 
little  use.  If  it  had  all  happened  at  once  after  he  had 
come  in  then  he  might  have  endured  it,  but  this  waiting  and 
listening  with  the  candle  guttering  was  too  much  for  him. 
His  father  was  so  very  strong — he  had  Peter's  figure  and 
was  not  very  tall  and  was  very  broad  in  the  back;  Peter 
had  seen  him  once  when  he  was  stripped,  and  the  thought 
of  it  always  frightened  him. 

His  face  was  white  and  his  teeth  would  chatter  although 
he  bit  his  lips  and  his  fingers  shook  as  he  undressed,  and 
his  stud  slipped  and  he  could  not  undo  his  braces — and 
always  his  ears  were  open  for  the  sound  of  the  step  on  the 
stairs. 

At  last  he  was  in  his  night-shirt,  and  a  very  melancholy 
figure  he  looked  as  he  stood  shivering  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor.  It  was  not  only  that  he  was  going  to  be  beaten,  it 
was  also  that  he  was  so  lonely.  Stephen  seemed  so  dread- 
fully far  away  and  he  had  other  things  to  think  about; 
he  wondered  whether  his  mother  in  that  strange  white  room 
ever  thought  of  him,  his  teeth  were  chattering,  so  that  his 
whole  head  shook,  but  he  was  afraid  to  get  into  bed  because 
then  he  might  go  to  sleep  and  it  would  be  so  frightening  to 
be  woken  by  his  father. 

The  clock  downstairs  struck  eleven,  and  he  heard  his 
father's  footstep.  The  door  opened,  and  his  father  came 
in  holding  in  his  hand  the  cane  that  Peter  knew  so  well. 

"  Are  you  there  ?  "  the  voice  was  very  cold. 

"  Yes,  father." 

"  Do  you  know  that  you  ought  to  be  home  before  six?  " 

"Yes,  father." 

"  And  that  I  dislike  your  going  to  The  Bending  Mule  ?  " 

"Yes,  father." 

"  And  that  I  insist  on  your  doing  your  work  for  Mr. 
Parlow.?" 


S4  FORTITUDE 

"  Yes,  father." 

"  And  that  you  are  not  to  fight  the  other  boys  in  the 
town  ?  " 

"  Yes,  father." 

"  Why  do  you  disobey  me  like  this  ?  *' 

"  I  don't  know.     I  try  to  be  good." 

"  You  are  growing  into  an  idle,  wicked  boy.  You  are  a 
great  trouble  to  your  mother  and  myself." 

"  Yes,  father.     I  want  to  be  better." 

Even  now  he  could  admire  his  father's  strength,  the 
bull-neck,  the  dark  close-cropped  hair,  but  he  was  cold, 
and  the  blood  had  come  where  he  bit  his  lip — because  he 
must  not  cry. 

"  You  must  learn  obedience.  Take  off  your  night- 
shirt." 

He  took  it  off,  and  was  a  very  small  naked  figure  in  the 
starUgbt,  but  his  head  was  up  now  and  he  faced  his  father. 

"  Bend  over  the  bed." 

He  bent  over  the  bed,  and  the  air  from  the  window  cut 
his  naked  back.  He  buried  his  head  in  the  counterpane 
and  fastened  his  teeth  in  it  so  that  he  should  not  cry 
out  .  .  . 

During  the  first  three  cuts  he  did  not  stir,  then  an  intol- 
erable pain  seemed  to  move  through  his  body — it  was  as 
though  a  knife  were  cutting  his  body  in  half.  But  it  was 
more  than  that — there  was  terror  with  him  now  in  the 
room;  he  heard  that  little  singing  noise  that  came  through 
his  father's  lips — he  knew  that  his  father  was  smiling. 

At  the  succeeding  strokes  his  flesh  quivered  and  shrank 
together  and  tlicn  opened  again — the  pain  was  intolerable; 
his  teeth  met  througli  the  coverlet  and  grated  on  one  an- 
other; but  bt^fore  his  eyes  was  the  picture  of  Stephen 
slowly  straightening  himself  before  his  enemy  and  then 
that  swinging  blow — he  would  not  cry.  He  seemed  to  b« 
sharing  his  punishment  with  Stephen,  and  they  were  march- 
ing, hand  in  hand,  down  a  road  lined  with  red-hot  pokers. 

His  back  was  on  fire,  and  his  head  was  bursting  and 
the  soles  of  his  feet  were  very,  very  cold. 

Then  he  heard,  from  a  long  way  away,  bis  father's 
voice: 

"  Now  you  will  not  disobey  me  again." 


SCAW  HOUSE  35 

The  door  closed.  Very  slowly  he  raised  himself,  but 
moving  was  torture;  he  put  on  his  night-shirt  and  then 
quickly  caught  back  a  scream  as  it  touched  his  back.  He 
moved  to  the  window  and  closed  it,  then  he  climbed  very 
,  slowly  on  to  his  bed,  and  the  tears  that  he  had  held  back 
I  came,  slowly  at  first,  and  then  more  rapidly,  at  last  in  tor- 
rents. It  was  not  the  pain,  although  that  was  bad,  but  it 
was  the  misery  and  the  desolation  and  the  great  heaviness 
of  a  world  that  held  out  no  hope,  no  comfort,  but  only  a 
great  cloud  of  unrelieved  unhappiness. 
At  last,  sick  with  crying,  he  fell  asleep. 


Ill 

The  first  shadow  of  light  was  stealing  across  the  white 
undulating  common  and  creeping  through  the  bare  trees  of 
the  desolate  garden  when  four  dark  figures,  one  tall,  two 
fat,  and  one  small,  stole  softly  up  the  garden  path.  They 
halted  beneath  the  windows  of  the  house;  the  snow  had 
ceased  falling,  and  their  breath  rose  in  clouds  above  their 
heads.  They  danced  a  little  in  the  snow  and  drove  their 
hands  together,  and  then  the  tall  figure  said: 

"  Now,  Tom  Prother,  out  with  thy  musick."  One  of 
the  fat  figures  felt  in  his  coat  and  produced  four  papers, 
and  these  were  handed  round. 

"  Bill,  my  son,  it's  for  thee  to  lead  off  at  thy  brightest, 
mind  ye.     Let  'em  have  it  praper." 

The  small  figure  came  forward  and  began ;  at  first  his 
voice  was  thin  and  quavering,  but  in  the  second  line  it 
gathered  courage  and  rang  out  full  and  bold: 

As  01  sat  under  a  sicymore  tree 
A    sicymore   tree,   a   sicymore  tree, 

Oi  looked  me  out  upon  the  sea 
On  Christ's  Sunday  at  morn. 

"Well  for  thee,  lad,"  said  the  tall  figure  approvingly, 
"  but  the  cold  is  creepin'  from  the  tips  o'  my  fingers  till 
my  singin'  voice  is  most  frozen.     Now,  altogether." 

And  the  birds  in  the  silent  garden  woke  amongst  the 
ivy  on  the  distant  wall  and  listened: 


86  FORTITUDE 

Oi  saw  three  ships  a-sailin'  there — 

A   sailin'  there,  a-sailin'  there, 
Jesu^  Mary,  and  Joseph   they   hare 

On  Christ's  Sunday  at  morn. 

A  small  boy  curled  up,  like  the  birds,  under  the  roof 
stirred  uneasily  in  his  sleep  and  then  slowly  woke.  He 
moved,  and  gave  a  little  cry  because  his  back  hurt  him, 
then  he  remembered  everything.  The  voices  came  up  to 
him  from  the  garden: 

Joseph  did  rvhistle  and  Mary  did  sing, 
Mary   did  sing,  Mary   did   sing. 

And  all  the  bells  on  earth  did  ring 
For  joy  our  Lord  was  born. 

O  they  sail'd  in  to  Bethlehem, 

To  Bethlehem,  to  Bethlehem; 
Saint  Michael  was  the  steersman. 

Saint  John  sate  in  the  horn. 

And  all  the  bells  on  earth  did  ring. 
On  earth  did  ring,  on  earth  did  ring; 

"  Welcome  be  thou  Heaven's  King, 
On  Christ's  Sunday  at  morn." 

He  got  slowly  out  of  bed  and  went  to  the  window.  The 
light  was  coming  in  broad  bands  from  the  East  and  he 
could  hear  the  birds  in  the  ivy.  The  four  black  figures 
stood  out  against  the  white  shadowy  garden  and  their 
heads  were  bent  together.  He  opened  his  window,  and  the 
fresh  morning  air  swept  about  his  face. 

He  could  hear  the  whispers  of  the  singers  as  they  chose 
another  carol  and  suddenly  above  the  dark  iron  gates  of 
the  garden  appeared  the  broad  red  face  of  the  sun. 


CHAPTER  III 

OF  THE  DARK  SHOP  OF  ZACHARY  TAN,  AND  OF  THE 

DECISIONS  THAT  THE  PEOPLE   IN   SCAW   HOUSE 

CAME  TO  CONCERNING  PETER 


BUT  it  was  of  the  nature  of  the  whole  of  life  that  these 
things  should  pass.  "  Look  back  on  this  bitterness  a 
year  hence  and  see  how  trivial  it  seems  "  was  one  of  the 
little  wisdoms  that  helped  Peter's  courage  in  after  years. 
And  to  a  boy  of  twelve  years  a  beating  is  forgotten  with 
amazing  quickness,  especially  if  it  is  a  week  of  holiday 
and  there  have  been  other  beatings  not  so  very  long  before. 

It  left  things  behind  it,  of  course.  It  was  the  worst 
beating  that  Peter  had  ever  had,  and  that  was  something, 
but  its  occurrence  marked  more  than  a  mere  crescendo  of 
pain,  and  that  evening  stood  for  some  new  resoluiaon  that 
he  did  not  rightly  understand  yet — something  that  was  in 
its  beginning  the  mere  planting  of  a  seed.  But  he  had 
certainly  met  the  affair  in  a  new  way  and,  although  in  the 
week  that  followed  he  saw  his  father  very  seldom  and 
spoke  to  him  not  at  all  beyond  "  Good  morning "  and 
"  Good  night,"  he  fancied  that  he  was  in  greater  favour 
with  him  than  he  had  ever  been  before. 

There  were  always  days  of  silence  after  a  beating,  and 
that  was  more  markedly  the  case  now  when  it  was  a  week 
of  holidays  and  no  Parlow  to  go  to.  Peter  did  not  mind 
the  silence — it  was  perhaps  safer — and  so  long  as  he  was 
home  by  six  o'clock  he  could  spend  the  day  where  he 
pleased.  He  asked  Mrs.  Trussit  about  the  carol-singers. 
There  was  a  little  room,  the  housekeeper's  room,  to  which 
he  crept  when  he  thought  that  it  was  safe  to  do  so.  She 
was  a  different  Mrs.  Trussit  within  the  boundary  of  her 
kingdom — a  very  cosy  kingdom  with  pink  wall-paper,  a 
dark  red  sofa,  a  canary  in  a  cage,  and  a  fire  very  lively 
in  the  grate.  From  the  depths  of  a  big  arm-chair,  her 
black  silk  dress  rustling  a  little  every  now  and  then,  her 

37 


88  FORTITUDE 

knitting  needles  clinking  in  the  firelight,  Mrs.  Trussit 
held  many  conversations  in  a  subdued  voice  with  Peter, 
who  sat  on  the  table  and  swung  his  legs.  She  was  valuable 
from  two  points  of  view — as  an  Historian  and  an  Encyclo- 
paedia. She  had  been,  in  the  first  place,  in  the  most  won- 
derful houses — The  Earl  of  IVinkerton's,  Bambary 
House,  Wiltshire,  was  the  greatest  of  these,  and  she  had 
been  there  for  ten  years;  tlicre  were  also  Lady  Mettle- 
sham,  tlie  Duchess  of  Cranburn,  and,  to  Peter,  the  most 
interesting  of  all,  Mr.  Henry  Galleon,  the  famous  novelist 
•who  was  so  fauious  that  American  ladies  used  to  creep  into 
his  garden  and  pick  leaves  off  his  laurels. 

Peter  had  from'  her  a  dazzling  picture  of  wonderful 
houses — of  staircases  and  garden  walks,  of  thousands  and 
thousands  of  shining  rooms,  of  family  portraits,  and  foot- 
men with  beautiful  legs.  Above  it  all  was  "  my  lady  "  who 
was  always  beautiful  and  stately  and,  of  course,  devoted 
to  Mrs.  Trussit.  Why  that  good  woman  left  these  noble 
mansions  for  so  dreary  a  place  as  Scaw  House  Peter  never 
could  understand,  and  for  many  years  that  remained  a  mys- 
tery to  him — but  in  awed  whispers  he  asked  her  questions 
about  the  lords  and  ladies  of  the  land  and  especially  about 
the  famous  novelist  and,  from  the  answers  given  to  him, 
constructed  a  complete  and  most  romantic  picture  of  the 
Peerage. 

But,  as  an  Encyclopaedia,  Mrs.  Trussit  was  even  more 
interesting.  She  had  apparently  disco\'crcd  at  an  early  age 
that  the  golden  rule  of  life  was  never  to  confess  yourself  ^7 

< defeated  by  any  question  whatever,  and  there  was  there-  ^ 
fore  nothing  that  he  could  ask  her  for  which  she  had  not 
an  immediate  answer  ready.  Her  brow  was  always  un- 
ruffled, her  black  shining  hair  brushed  neatly  back  and 
parted  down  the  middle,  her  large  flat  face  always  com- 
posed and  placid,  and  her  voice  never  raised  above  a  whis- 
per. The  only  sign  that  she  e\'er  gave  of  disturbance  was 
a  little  clucking  noise  that  she  made  in  her  mouth  like  an 
aroused  hen.  Peter's  time  in  the  little  pink  sitting-room 
was  sometimes  exceedingly  short  and  he  used  to  make  the 
most  of  it  by  shooting  questions  at  the  good  lady  at  an 
astonisliing  rate,  and  he  was  sometimes  irritated  by  her 
slow  and  placid  replies: 


SCAW  HOUSE  89 

"  What  kind  of  stockings  did  Mr.  Galleon  wear  ?  " 

"  He  didn't  wear  stockings  unless,  as  you  might  say,  in 
country  attire,  and  then,  if  I  remember  correctly,  they  were 
grey." 

"  Had  he  any  children  ?  ' 

"  There  was  one  little  dear  when  I  had  the  honour  of 
being  in  the  house — and  since  then  I  have  heard  that  there 
are  two  more." 

"  Mrs.  Trussit,  where  do  children  come  from  ?  " 

"  They  are  brought  by  God's  good  angels  when  we  are 
all  asleep  in  the  night  time." 

"Oh!  (this  rather  doubtfully).  A  pause — then  "Did 
the  Earl  of  Twinkerton  have  hot  or  cold  baths  ?  " 

"  Cold  in  the  morning,  I  believe,  with  the  chill  off  and 
hot  at  night  before  dressing  for  dinner.  He  was  a  very 
cleanly  gentleman." 

"  Mrs.  Trussit,  where  is  Patagonia  ?  It  came  in  the  his- 
tory this  morning." 

"  North  of  the  Caribbean  Sea,  I  believe,  my  dear." 

And  so  on,  and  Peter  never  forgot  any  of  her  answers. 
About  the  carol-singers  she  was  a  little  irritable.  They 
had  woken  her  it  seemed  from  a  very  delightful  sleep,  and 
she  considered  the  whole  affair  "  savoured  of  Paganism." 
And  then  Peter  found  suddenly  that  he  didn't  wish  to  talk 
about  the  carol-singers  at  all  because  the  things  that  he 
felt  about  them  were,  in  some  curious  way,  not  the  things 
that  he  could  say  to  Mrs.  Trussit. 

She  was  very  kind  to  him  during  that  Christmas  week 
and  gave  him  mixed  biscuits  out  of  a  brightly  shining  tin 
that  she  kept  in  a  cupboard  in  her  room.  But  outside  the 
gates  of  her  citadel  she  was  a  very  different  person,  spoke 
to  Peter  but  rarely,  and  then  always  with  majesty  and 
from  a  long  way  away.  Her  attitude  to  the  little  maid-of- 
all-work  was  something  very  wonderful  indeed,  and  even 
to  Aunt  Jessie  her  tone  might  be  considered  patronising. 

But  indeed  to  Aunt  Jessie  it  was  very  difficult  to  be 
anything  else.  Aunt  Jessie  was  a  poor  creature,  as  Peter 
discovered  very  early  in  life.  He  found  that  she  never 
had  any  answers  ready  to  the  questions  that  he  asked  her 
and  that  she  hesitated  when  he  wished  to  know  whether 
he  might  do  a  thing  or  no.     She  was  always  trembling  and 


40  FORTITUDE 

shaking,  and  no  strong-minded  person  ever  wore  mittens. 
He  had  a  great  contempt  for  his  aunt.  .  .  . 

On  New  Year's  Eve,  the  last  day  but  one  of  release 
from  old  Parlow,  Mr.  ^^'estcott  spent  the  day  doing  busi- 
ness in  Truro,  and  at  once  the  atmosphere  over  Scaw 
House  seemed  to  lighten.  The  snow  had  melted  away,  and 
there  was  a  ridiculous  feeling  of  spring  in  the  air;  ridiculous 
because  it  was  still  December,  but  Cornwall  is  often  sur- 
prisingly warm  in  the  heart  of  winter,  and  the  sun  was 
shining  as  ardently  as  though  it  were  the  middle  of  June. 
The  sunlight  flooded  the  dining-room  and  roused  old  grand- 
father VVestcott  to  unwonted  life,  so  that  he  stirred  in  his 
chair  and  was  quite  unusually  talkative. 

He  stopped  Peter  after  breakfast,  as  he  was  going  out 
of  the  room  and  called  him  to  his  side: 

"  Is  that  the  sun,  boy  ?  " 

"  Yes,  grandfather." 

"  Deary  me,  to  think  of  that  and  me  a  poor,  broken, 
old  man  not  able  to  move  an  arm  or  foot." 

He  raised  himself  amongst  his  cushions,  and  Peter  saw 
an  old  yellow  wrinkled  face  with  the  skin  drawn  tiglit  over 
the  cheekbones  and  little  black  shining  eyes  like  drops  of 
ink.     A  wrinkled  claw  shot  out  and  clutched  Peter's  hand. 

"Do  you  love  your  grandfather,  boy.''" 

"  Of  course,  grandfather." 

"  That's  right,  that's  right — on  a  nice  sunny  morning, 
too.     Do  you  love  your  father,  boy  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  grandfather." 

"  He,  he — oh,  yes — all  the  Westcotts  love  their  fathers. 
He  loved  his  father  when  he  was  young,  didn't  he?  Oh, 
yes,  I  should  rather  think  so." 

And  his  voice  rose  into  a  shrill  scream  so  that  Peter 
jumped.     Then  he  began  to  look  Peter  up  and  down. 

"  You'll  be  strong,  boy,  when  you're '  a  man — oh,  yes, 
I  should  rather  think  so — I  was  strong  once.  .  .  ,  Do  yoa 
hear  th.it  .^  .  .  .  I  was  strong  once,  he,  he !  " 

And  here  grandfather  Wcstcott,  overcome  by  his  chuc- 
kling, began  to  cough  so  badly  that  Peter  was  afraid  that  he 
was  going  to  be  ill,  and  considered  running  for  Aunt  Jessie. 

"  Hit  my  back,  boy — huh,  huh !  Ugh,  ugh !  That's 
right,  hit  it  hard — that's  better — ugh,  ugh  I     Oh !  deary  me  I 


SCAW  HOUSE  41 

that's  better — wJiat  a  nasty  cough,  oh,  deary  me,  what  a 
nasty  cough!  I  was  strong  once,  boy,  hegh,  hegh!  In- 
deed I  was,  just  like  your  father — and  he'll  be  just  like 
me,  one  day!  Oh!  yes,  he  will — blast  his  bones!  He,  he! 
We  all  come  to  it — all  of  us  strong  men,  and  we're  cruel  and 
hard,  and  won't  give  a  poor  old  man  enough  for  his  break- 
fast— and  then  suddenly  we're  old  ourselves,  and  what  fun 
that  is !  Oh !  Yes,  your  father  will  be  old  one  day ! " 
and  suddenly,  delighted  with  the  thought,  the  old  man 
slipped  down  beneath  his  cushions  and  was  fast  asleep. 
And  Peter  went  out  into  the  sunlight. 

11 

Peter  looked  very  different  at  different  times.  When  He 
was  happy  his  cheeks  were  flooded  with  colour,  his  eyes 
shone,  and  his  mouth  smiled.  He  was  happy  now,  and  he 
forgot  as  he  came  out  into  the  garden  that  he  had  promised 
his  aunt  that  he  would  go  in  and  see  his  mother  for  a  few 
minutes.  Old  Curtis,  wearing  the  enormous  sun-hat  that  he 
always  had  flapping  about  his  head  and  his  trousers  tied 
below  his  knees  with  string  in  the  most  ridiculous  way,  was 
sweeping  the  garden  path.  He  never  did  very  much  work, 
and  the  garden  was  in  a  shocking  state  of  neglect,  but  he 
told  delightful  stories.  To-day,  however,  he  was  in  a  bad 
temper  and  would  pay  no  attention  to  Peter  at  all,  and  so 
Peter  left  him  and  went  out  into  the  high  road. 

It  was  two  miles  across  the  common  to  Stephen's  farm 
and  it  took  the  boy  nearly  an  hour,  because  the  ground  was 
uneven  and  there  were  walls  to  climb,  and  also  because  he 
was  thinking  of  what  his  grandfather  had  said.  Would  his 
father  one  day  be  old  and  silly  like  his  grandfather  .f*  Did 
every  one  get  old  and  silly  like  that?  and,  if  so,  what  was 
the  use  of  being  born  at  all?  But  what  happened  to  all  his 
father's  strength?  Where  did  it  all  go  to?  In  some  cu- 
rious undefined  way  he  resented  his  grandfather's  remarks. 
He  could  have  loved  and  admired  his  father  immensely 
had  he  been  allowed  to,  bnt  even  if  that  were  not  permitted 
he  could  stand  up  for  him  when  he  was  attacked.  What 
right  had  his  silly  old  grandfather  to  talk  like  that?  .  .  . 
His  father  would  one  day  be  old?  And  Stephen,  would 
he  be  old,  too?     Did  all  strength  go? 


42  FORTITUDE 

Peter  was  crossing  a  ploughed  field,  and  the  rich  brown 
earth  heaved  in  a  great  circle  against  the  sky  and  in  the 
depth  of  its  furrows  there  were  mysterious  velvet  shadows 
— the  brown  hedges  stood  back  against  the  sky  line.  The 
world  was  so  fresh  and  clean  and  strong  this  morning  that 
tlie  figure  and  voice  of  his  grandfather  hung  unpleasantly 
about  him  and  depressed  him.  There  were  so  many  things 
that  he  wanted  to  know  and  so  few  people  to  tell  him,  and 
he  turned  through  the  white  gates  of  Stephen's  farm  with 
a  consciousness  that  since  Christmas  Eve  the  world  had  be- 
gun to  be  a  new  place. 

Stephen  was  sitting  in  the  upstairs  room  scratching  his 
head  over  his  accounts,  whilst  his  old  mother  sat  dozing, 
with  her  knitting  fallen  on  to  her  lap  by  the  fire.  The 
window  was  open,  and  all  the  sound  and  smells  of  the  farm 
came  into  the  room.  The  room  was  an  old  one  with  bro\vn 
oaken  rafters  and  whitewashed  walls,  a  long  oaken  table 
down  the  middle  of  it,  and  a  view  over  the  farmyard  and 
the  sweeping  fields  beyond  it,  lost  at  last,  in  the  distant 
purple  hills.  Peter  was  given  a  chair  opposite  the  old  lady, 
who  was  nearly  eighty,  and  wore  a  beautiful  white  cap,  and 
she  woke  up  and  talked  incessantly,  because  she  was  very 
garrulous  by  nature  and  didn't  care  in  the  least  to  whom 
she  talked.  Peter  politely  listened  to  what  she  had  to  say, 
although  he  understood  little  of  it,  and  his  eyes  were  watch- 
ing for  the  moment  when  the  accounts  should  be  finished 
and  Stephen   free. 

"  Ay,"  said  the  old  lady,  "  and  it  were  good  Mr.  Tene- 
ment were  the  rector  in  those  days,  I  remember,  and  he 
gave  us  a  roaring  discourse  many's  the  Sunday.  Church 
is  not  what  it  was,  with  all  this  singing  and  what  not  and 
the    clothes    the    young    women    wear — I    remember  .  .  ." 

But  Stephen  had  closed  his  books  with  a  bang  and  given 
his  figures  up  in  despair.  "  I  don't  knaw  how  it  is,  boy," 
he  said,  "  but  tliey're  at  something  difTerent  every  time  yer 
look  at  'cm — they're  one  too  many  for  me,  that's  certain." 

One  of  Stephen's  eyes  was  still  nearly  closed,  and  both 
eyes  were  black  and  blue,  and  his  right  cheek  had  a  bad 
bruise  on  it,  but  Peter  thought  it  was  wiser  not  to  allude 
to  the  encounter.  The  farm  was  exceedingly  interesting, 
and  then  there  was  dinner,  and  it  was  not  until  the  meal 


SCAW  HOUSE  43 

had  been  cleared  away  that  Peter  remembered  that  he 
wanted  to  ask  some  questions,  and  then  Stephen  interrupted 
him  with: 

"  Like  to  go  to  Zachary  Tan's  with  me  this  afternoon, 
boy?     I've  got  to  be  lookin'  in." 

Peter  jumped  to  his  feet  with  excitement. 

"Oh!     Steve!     This   afternoon — this   very  afternoon?" 

It  was  the  most  exciting  thing  possible.  Zachary  Tan's 
was  the  curiosity  shop  of  Treliss  and  famous  even  twenty 
years  ago  throughout  the  south  country.  It  is  still  there, 
I  believe,  although  Zachary  himself  is  dead  and  with  him 
has  departed  most  of  the  atmosphere  of  the  place,  and  it 
is  now  smart  and  prosperous,  although  in  those  days  it  was 
dark  and  dingy  enough.  No  one  knew  whence  Zachary  had 
come,  and  he  was  one  of  the  mysteries  of  a  place  that  deals, 
even  now,  in  mysteries.  He  had  arrived  as  a  young  man 
with  a  basket  over  his  back  thirty  years  before  Peter  saw 
the  light,  when  Treliss  was  a  little  fisliing  village  and  Mr. 
Bannister,  Junior,  had  not  cast  his  enterprising  eye  over 
The  Man  at  Arms.  Zachary  had  beads  and  silks,  and 
little  silver  images  in  his  basket,  and  he  had  stayed  there 
in  a  little  room  over  the  shop,  and  things  had  prospered 
with  him.  The  inhabitants  of  the  place  had  never  trusted 
him,  but  they  were  always  interested.  "  Thiccy  Zachary 
be  a  poor  trade,"  they  had  said  at  first,  "  poor  trade  "  sig- 
nifying anything  or  anybody  not  entirely  approved  of — but 
they  had  hung  about  his  shop,  had  bought  his  silks  and  little 
ornaments,  and  had  talked  to  him  sometimes  with  eyes 
open  and  mouths  agape  at  the  things  that  he  could  tell 
them.  And  then  people  had  come  from  Truro  and  Pen- 
dragon  and  even  Bodmin  and,  finally,  Exeter,  because  they 
had  heard  of  the  things  that  he  had  for  sale.  No  one 
knew  where  he  found  his  treasures,  for  he  was  always  in  his 
shop,  smiling  and  amiable,  but  sometimes  gentlemen  would 
come  from  London,  and  he  had  strange  friends  like  Mr. 
Andreas  Morelli,  concerning  whose  life  a  book  has  already 
been  written.  Zachary  Tan's  shop  became  at  last  the  word 
in  Treliss  for  all  that  was  strange  and  unusual — the  strong- 
est link  with  London  and  other  curious  places.  He  had 
a  little  back  room  behind  his  shop,  where  he  would  welcome 
his  friends,  give  them  something  to  drink  and  talk  about 


44  FORTITUDE 

the  world.  He  was  always  so  friendly  that  people  thought 
that  he  must  wish  for  things  in  return,  but  he  never  asked 
for  anything,  nor  did  he  speak  about  himself  at  all.  As 
for  his  portrait,  he  had  a  pale  face,  a  big  beak  nose,  very 
black  hair  that  hung  o\'er  his  forehead  and  was  always  un- 
tidy, a  blue  velvet  jacket,  black  trousers,  green  slippers, 
and  small  feet. 

He  also  wore  two  rings  and  blew  his  long  nose  in  silk 
handkerchiefs  of  the  most  wonderful  colours.  All  these 
things  may  seem  of  the  slenderest  importance,  but  they 
are  not  insignificant  if  one  considers  their  effect  upon  Peter. 
Zachary  was  the  most  romantic  figure  that  he  had  yet  en- 
countered; to  walk  through  the  shop  with  its  gold  and  its 
silver,  its  dust  and  its  jewels,  into  the  dark  little  room  be- 
yond; to  hear  this  wonderful  person  talk,  to  meet  men  who 
lived  in  London,  to  listen  by  the  light  of  flickering  candles 
and  with  one's  eyes  fixed  upon  portraits  of  ladies  dancing 
in  the  slenderest  attire,  this  was  indeed  Life,  and  Life  such 
as  The  Bending  Mule,  Scaw  House,  and  even  Stephen's 
farm  itself  could  not  offer. 

Peter  often  wondered  why  Stephen  and  Zachary  were 
friends,  because  they  seemed  to  have  little  enough  in  com- 
mon, but  Stephen  was  a  silent  man,  who  liked  all  kinds  of 
company,  and  Peter  noticed  that  Zachary  was  always  very 
polite  and  obliging  to  Stephen. 

Stephen  was  very  silent  going  across  the  Common  and 
down  the  high  road  into  the  town,  but  Peter  knew  him  too 
well  by  this  time  to  interrupt  his  thoughts.  He  was  think- 
ing perhaps  about  his  accounts  that  would  not  come  right 
or  about  the  fight  and  Burstead  his  enemy. 

Everybody  had  their  troubles  that  they  thought  about 
and  every  one  had  their  secrets,  the  things  that  they  kept 
to  themselves — even  Aunt  Jessie  and  old  Curtis  the  gar- 
dener— one  must  either  be  as  clever  as  Zachary  Tan  or  as 
foolish  as  Dicky  the  Idiot  to  know  very  much  about  people. 
Zachary,  Peter  had  noticed,  was  one  of  the  persons  who 
always  listened  to  everything  that  Dicky  had  to  say,  and 
treated  him  with  the  greatest  seriousness,  even  when  he 
seemed  to  be  talking  about  the  wildest  things — and  it  was 
a  great  many  years  after  this  that  Peter  discovered  that  it 
was  only  the  wisest  people  who  knew  how  very  important 


SCAW  HOUSE  45 

jfools  were.  Zachary's  shop  was  at  the  very  bottom  of 
Poppero~otreet,  the  steep  and  cobbled  street  that  goes 
straight  down  to  the  little  wooden  jetty  where  the  fishing 
boats  lie,  and  you  could  see  the  sea  like  a  square  handker- 
chief between  the  houses  on  either  side.  Many  of  the 
houses  in  Poppero  Street  are  built  a  little  below  the  level 
of  the  pathway,  and  you  must  go  down  steps  to  reach  the 
door.  Zachary's  shop  was  like  this,  and  it  had  a  green 
door  with  a  bright  brass  knocker.  There  were  always 
many  things  jumbled  together  in  the  window — candlesticks, 
china  shepherds  and  shepherdesses,  rings  and  necklaces, 
cups  and  saucers,  little  brass  figures,  coins,  snuiF-boxes, 
match-boxes,  charms,  and  old  blue  china  plates,  and  at  the 
back  a  complete  suit  of  armour  that  had  been  there  ever 
since  Zachary  had  first  opened  his  shop. 

Of  course,  inside  there  were  a  thousand  and  one  things 
of  the  most  exciting  kind,  but  Stephen,  an  enormous  figure 
in  the  low-roofed  shop,  brushed  past  the  pale-faced  youth 
whom  Zachary  now  hired  to  assist  with  the  customers  and 
passed  into  the  dark  room  beyond,  Peter  close  at  his  heels. 

There  were  two  silver  candlesticks  lighted  on  the  mantel- 
piece, and  there  were  two  more  in  the  centre  of  the  green 
baize  table  and  round  the  fire  were  seated  four  men.  One 
of  them  Zachary  himself,  another  was  pleasant  little  Mr. 
Bannister,  host  of  The  Man  at  Arms,  another  was  old 
Frosted  Moses,  sucking  as  usual  at  his  great  pipe,  and  the 
fourth  was  a  stranger. 

Zachary  rose  and  came  forward  smiling.  "  AH,  Mr. 
Brant,  delighted  to  see  you,  I'm  sure.  Brought  the  boy 
with  you.^  Excellent,  excellent.  Mr.  Bannister  and  Mr. 
Tathero  (old  Moses*  society  name)  you  know,  of  course; 
this  is  Mr.  Emilio  Zanti,  a  friend  of  mine  from  London." 

The  stranger,  who  was  an  enormous  fat  man  with  a  bald 
head  and  an  eager  smile  rose  and  shook  hands  with  Stephen, 
he  also  shook  hands  with  Peter  as  though  it  had  been  the 
ambition  of  his  life  to  meet  that  small  and  rather  defiant 
person. 

He  also  embarrassed  Peter  very  much  by  addressing  him 
as  though  he  were  grown  up,  and  listening  courteously  to 
everything  that  he  had  to  say.  Peter  decided  that  he  did 
not  like  him — ^but  "  a  gentleman  from  London  "  was  always 


46  FORTITUDE 

an  exciting  introduction.  The  boy  was  able  very  quickly 
to  obliterate  himself  by  sitting  down  somewhere  in  a  cor- 
ner and  remaining  absolutely  silent  and  perhaps  tliat  was 
the  reason  that  he  was  admitted  to  so  many  elderly  gather- 
ings— he  was  never  in  the  way.  He  slipped  quickly  into 
a  chair,  hidden  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall,  but  close  to  the 
elbow  of  "  the  gentleman  from  London,"  whose  face  he 
watched  with  the  greatest  curiosity.  Stephen  was  silent, 
and  Frosted  Moses  very  rarely  said  anything  at  all,  so  that 
the  conversation  speedily  became  a  dialogue  between  Zach- 
ary  and  the  foreign  gentleman,  with  occasional  appeals  to 
Mr.  Brant  for  his  unbiassed  opinion.  Peter's  whole  mem- 
ory of  the  incident  was  vague  and  uncertain,  although  in 
after  years  he  often  tried  very  hard  to  recall  it  all  to  mind. 
He  was  excited  by  the  mere  atmosphere  of  the  place,  by 
the  silver  candlesticks,  the  dancing  ladies  on  the  walls, 
Zachary's  blue  coat,  and  the  sense  of  all  the  wonderful 
things  in  the  shop  beyond.  He  had  no  instinct  that  it  was 
all  important  beyond  the  knowledge  that  it  roused  a  great 
many  things  in  him  that  the  rest  of  his  life  left  untouched 
and  anything  to  do  with  "  London,"  a  city,  as  he  knew 
from  Tom  Jones  and  David  Copperfield,  of  extraordinary 
excitement  and  adventure,  "w^as  an  event.  He  watched  Mr. 
Emilio  Zanti  closely,  and  he  decided  that  his  smile  was  not 
real,  and  that  it  must  be  very  unpleasant  to  have  a  bald 
head.  He  also  noticed  that  he  said  things  in  a  funny  way: 
like  "  ze  beautiful  country  zat  you  'ave  'ere  with  its  sea 
and  its  woods  "  and  "  I  'ave  the  greatest  re-spect  for  ze 
Englishman  " — also  his  hands  were  very  fat  and  he  wore 
rings  like  Zachary. 

Sometimes  Peter  fancied  that  his  words  meant  a  great 
deal  more  than  they  seemed  to  mean.  He  laughed  when 
there  was  really  nothing  to  laugh  at  and  he  tried  to  make 
Stephen  talk,  but  Stephen  was  very  silent.  On  the  whole 
the  conversation  was  dull,  Peter  thought,  and  once  he 
nodded  and  was  very  nearly  asleep,  and  fancied  that  the 
gentleman  from  London  M-as  spreading  like  a  balloon  and 
filling  all  the  room.  There  was  no  mention  of  London 
at  all. 

Peter  wondered  for  what  pur}K)se  Stephen  had  come 
there,  because  he  sat  looking  at  the  fire  with  his  brown 


SCAW  HOUSE  47 

hands  spread  out  over  his  great  knees,  thinking  apparently 
all  his  own  thoughts. 

Then  suddenly  there  came  a  moment.  The  London  gen- 
tleman, Mr.  Emilio  Zanti,  turned  round  quite  quickly  and 
said,  like  a  shot  out  of  a  gun:  "And  what  does  our  little 
friend  think  of  it  ?  " 

Peter  did  not  know  to  what  he  was  referring,  and  looked 
embarrassed.  He  was  also  conscious  that  Zachary  was 
watching  him  keenly. 

"  Ah,  'e  does  not  understand,  our  little  friend.  But  with 
life,  what  is  it  that  you  will  do  when  you  are  grown  up,  my 
boy  ?  "  and  he  put  his  fat  hand  on  Peter's  knee.  Peter 
disliked  him  more  than  ever,  but  he  answered: 

"  I  don't  know — I  haven't  settled  yet." 

"  Ah,  it  is  early  days,"  said  Mr.  Zanti,  nodding  his  head, 
"there  is  much  time,  of  course.  But  what  is  the  thing 
that  our  little  friend  would  care,  most  of  all,  to  do  ?  " 

"  To  go  to  school,"  said  Peter,  without  any  hesitation, 
and  both  Zachary  and  Mr.  Zanti  laughed  a  great  deal  more 
than  was  in  the  least  necessary. 

"  And  then — afterwards  ?  "  said  Mr.  Zanti. 

"  To  go  to  London,"  said  Peter,  stiffly,  feeling  in  some 
undefined  way  that  they  were  laughing  at  him  and  that 
something  was  going  on  that  he  did  not  understand. 

"  Ho !  that  is  good,"  said  Mr.  Emilio,  slapping  his  knees 
and  rocking  in  his  chair  with  merriment.  "  Ho !  that  is 
very  good.  He  knows  a  thing  or  two,  our  young  friend 
here.  Ho,  yes !  don't  you  mistake ! "  For  a  little  while 
he  could  not  speak  for  laughing,  and  the  tears  rolled  down 
his  fat  cheeks.  "  And  what  is  it  that  you  will  do  when 
you  are  there,  my  friend  ?  "  he  said  at  last. 

"  I  will  have  adventures,"  said  Peter,  growing  a  little 
bolder  at  the  thought  of  London  and  its  golden  streets. 
And  then,  suddenly,  when  he  heard  this,  curious  Mr.  Zanti 
grew  very  grave  indeed,  and  his  eyes  were  very  large,  and 
he  put  a  finger  mysteriously  to  his  nose.  Then  he  leant 
right  over  Peter  and  almost  whispered  in  his  ear. 

"  And  you  shall — of  course  you  shall.  You  shall  come 
to  London  and  'ave  adventures — 'caps  and  'caps  and  'caps. 
Oh,  yes,  bless  my  soul,  shan't  he,  Mr.  Tan.-*  Dear  me, 
yes — London,    my    young    friend,   is    the    most   wonderful 


^48  FORTITUDE 

place.  In  one  week,  if  you  are  clever,  you  'ave  made 
thousands  of  pounds — thousands  and  thousands.  Is  it  not 
so,  Mr.  Tan?  When  you  are  just  a  little  bit  older,  a  few 
years — then  you  shall  come.  And  you  ask  for  your  friend, 
Mr.  Emilio  Zanti — because  I  like  you.  We  will  be  friends, 
is  not  that  so  ?  " 

And  he  held  out  his  large  fat  hand  and  grasped  Peter's 
small  and  rather  damp  one.  Then  he  bent  even  closer,  still 
holding  Peter's  hand:  "  Do  you  know  one  thing.''  "  he  whis- 
pered. 

"  No,"  replied  Peter,  husky  with  awe. 

"  It  is  this,  that  when  you  think  of  Mr.  Zanti  and  of 
London  and  of  adventures,  you  will  look  in  a  looking-glass 
— any  looking-glass,  and  you  will  see — what  you  will  see," 
and  he  nodded  all  over  his  fat  face. 

Peter  was  entirely  overcome  by  this  last  astonishing 
statement,  and  was  very  relieved  to  hear  numbers  of  clocks 
in  the  curiosity  shop  strike  five  o'clock.  He  got  off  his 
chair,  said  good-bye  very  politely  indeed,  and  hurried  up 
the  dark  street. 

For  the  moment  even  his  beloved  Stephen  was  forgotten, 
and  looking-glasses,  the  face  of  Mr.  Emilio  Zanti,  London 
streets,  and  Zachary's  silver  candlesticks  were  mingled  con- 
fusedly in  his  brain. 


in 

And  indeed  throughout  the  dreary  supper  Peter's  brain 
was  in  a  whirl.  It  often  happened  that  supper  passed 
without  a  word  of  conversation  from  first  to  last.  His 
father  very  rarely  said  anything,  Peter  never  said  any- 
thing at  all,  and  if  Aunt  Jessie  did  venture  on  a  little  con- 
versation she  received  so  slender  an  encouragement  that 
she  always  forsook  the  attempt  after  a  very  short  time. 
It  was  a  miserable  meal. 

It  was  cold  beef  and  beetroot  and  blanc-raange  with  a 
very,  very  little  strawberry  jam  round  the  edges  of  the 
glass  dish,  and  there  was  a  hard  red  cheese  and  little  stiff 
woolly  biscuits. 

But  old  grandfather  Westcott  was  always  hungry,  and 
his  querulous  complaints  were  as  regular  an  accompaniment 


SCAW  HOUSE  49 

to  the  evening  meal  as  the  ticking  of  the  marble  clock. 
But  his  beef  had  to  be  cut  up  for  him  into  very  tiny  pieces 
and  that  gave  Aunt  Jessie  a  great  deal  of  work,  so  that  his 
appeals  for  a  second  helping  were  considered  abominable 
selfishness. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  just  a  leetle  piece  of  beef"  (this  from 
the  very  heart  of  the  cushions) .  "  Just  the  leetlest  piece 
of  beef  for  a  poor  old  man — such  a  leetle  piece  he  had,  and 
he's  had  such  a  hunger."  No  answer  to  this  and  at  last 
a  strange  noise  from  the  cushions  like  the  sound  of  dogs 
quarrelling.  At  last  again,  "Oh,  just  the  leetlest  piece  of 
beef  for  a  poor  old  man — "  and  then  whimpering  and 
**  poor  old  man "  repeated  at  intervals  that  lengthened 
gradually  into  sleep. 

At  last  the  meal  was  over,  the  things  had  been  cleared 
away,  and  Peter  was  bending  over  a  sum  in  preparation 
for  lessons  on  Monday.  Such  a  sum — add  this  and  this 
and  this  and  this  and  then  divide  it  by  that  and  multiply 
the  result  by  this!  .  .  .  and  the  figures  (bad  ill-written 
figures)  crept  over  the  page  and  there  were  smudgy  finger 
marks,  and  always  between  every  other  line  "  London, 
looking-glasses,  and  fat  Mr.  Zanti  laughing  until  the  tears 
ran  down  his  face."  Such  a  strange  world  where  all  these 
things  could  be  so  curiously  confused,  all  of  them,  one  sup- 
posed, having  their  purpose  and  meaning — even  grand- 
father— and  even  2469  X  2312  X  6201,  and  ever  so  many 
more  until  they  ran  races  round  the  page  and  up  and  down 
and  in  and  out. 

And  then  suddenly  into  the  middle  of  the  silence  his 
father's   voice : 

"  What  are  you  doing  there  ?  " 

"  Sums,  father — for  Monday." 

"  You  won't  go  back  on  Monday "  (and  this  without 
the  Cornish  Times  moving  an  inch). 

"Not  go  back?" 

"  No.  You  are  going  away  to  school — ^to  Devonshire 
— on  Tuesday  week." 

And  Peter's  pencil  fell  clattering  on  to  the  paper,  and 
the  answer  to  that  sum  is  still  an  open  question. 


CHAPTER  IV 

IN   WHICH   "DAWSON'S,''   AS  THE   GATE   OF  LIFE,  IS 
PROVED  A  DISAPPOINTMENT 


IT  was,  of  course,  very  strange  that  this  should  come  so 
swiftly  after  the  meeting  with  the  London  gentleman 
— it  was  almost  as  though  he  had  known  about  it,  because 
it  was  a  first  step  towards  that  London  that  he  had  so  con- 
fidently promised.  To  Peter  school  meant  the  immediate 
I  supply  of  the  two  things  that  he  wanted  more  than  anything 
I  in  the  world — Friendship  and  Knowledge;  not  knowledge 
I  of  the  tiresome  kind.  Knowledge  that  had  to  do  with  the 
1  Kings  of  Israel  and  the  capital  of  Italy,  but  rather  the  ex- 
perience that  other  gentlemen  of  his  own  age  had  already 
gathered  during  their  journey  through  the  world.  Stephen, 
Zachary,  Moses,  Dicky,  Mrs.  Trussit,  old  Curtis,  even  Aunt 
Jessie — all  these  people  had  knowledge,  of  course,  but  they 
would  not  give  it  you — they  would  not  talk  to  you  as  though 
they  were  at  your  stage  of  the  journey,  they  could  not  ex- 
change opinions  with  you,  they  could  not  share  in  your  wild 
surmises,  they  could  not  sympatliise  with  your  hatred  of 
addition,  multiplication,  and  subtraction.  The  fellow  vic- 
tims at  old  Parlow's  might  have  been  expected  to  do  these 
things,  but  they  were  too  young,  too  iminterested,  too  un- 
enterprising. One  wanted  real  boys — boys  with  excite- 1 
ment  and  sympathy  .  .  .  real  boys.  ' 

He  had  wanted  it,  far,  far  more  terribly  than  any  one 
had  known.  He  had  sat,  sometimes,  in  tlic  dark,  in  his 
bedroom,  and  tliought  about  it  until  he  had  very  nearly 
cried,  because  he  wanted  it  so  badly,  and  now  it  had  sud- 
denly come  out  of  the  clouds  .  .  .  bang! 


That  last  week  went  with  a  rattling  speed  and  provided 
a  number  of  most  interesting  situations.     In  the  first  place 

50 


SCAW  HOUSE  51 

there  was  the  joy — a  simple  but  delightful  one — on  Monday 
morning,  of  thinking  of  those  "  others  "  who  were  entering, 
with  laggard  foot,  into  old  Parlow's  study — ^that  study  with 
the  shining  map  of  Europe  on  the  wall,  a  bust  of  Julius 
Caesar  (conquered  Britain?  B.  c),  and  the  worn  red  carpet. 
They  would  all  be  there.  They  would  wonder  where  he 
was,  and  on  discovering  that  he  would  never  come  again, 
Willie  Daffoll,  of  recent  tragic  memory,  would  be  pleased 
because  now  he  would  be  chief  and  leader.  Well,  let  him! 
.  .  .  Yes,  that  was  all  very  pleasant  to  think  of. 

There  was  further  the  thought  that  school  might  not, 
after  all,  be  exactly  what  Peter  imagined  it.  The  pictures 
in  his  mind  were  evolved  from  his  reading  of  "  David  Cop- 
perfield."  There  would  be  people  like  Steerforth  and  dear 
Traddles,  there  would  be  a  master  who  played  the  flute, 
there  would  be  rebellions  and  riots — would  there? 

Mrs.  Trussit  was  of  little  value  on  this  occasion: 

"  Mrs.  Trussit,  were  you  ever  at  school  ?  " 

"  No,  Master  Peter,  I  was  never  at  school.  My  good 
mother,  who  died  at  the  ripe  old  age  of  ninety-two  with 
all  her  faculties,  gave  me  a  liberal  and  handsome  education 
with  her  own  hands." 

"  Do  you  think  it  will  be  like  '  David  Copperfield  '?  " 

Mrs.  Trussit  was  ignorant  of  the  work  in  question.  "  Of 
course.  Master  Peter.  How  can  you  ask  such  a  thing? 
They  are  all  like  that,  I  believe.  But,  there,  run  away 
now.  It's  time  for  me  to  be  looking  after  your  mother's 
supper,"  &c.  &c. 

Mrs.  Trussit  obviously  knew  nothing  whatever  about  it, 
although  Peter  heard  her  once  murmuring  "  Poor  lamb " 
as  she  gave  him  mixed  biscuits  out  of  her  tin. 

Stephen  also  was  of  little  use,  and  he  didn't  seem  especially 
glad  when  he  heard  about  it. 

"  And  it's  a  good  school,  do  you  think?  "  he  said. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Peter  valiantly,  "  one  of  the  very  best. 
It's  in  Devonshire,  and  I  leave  by  the  eight  o'clock  train  " 
(this  very  importantly). 

The  fact  of  the  matter  was  that  Peter  was  so  greatly  ex- 
cited by  it  all  that  abandoning  even  Stephen  was  a  minor 
sorrow.  It  was  a  dreadful  pity  of  course,  but  Peter  intended 
to  write  most  wonderful  letters,  and  there  would  be  the  joy- 


52  FORTITUDE 

ful  meeting  when  the  holidays  came  round,  and  he  would  be 
a  more  sensible  person  for  Stephen  to  have  for  a  friend  after 
he'd  seen  the  world. 

"  Dear  Steplien — I  shall  write  every  week — every  Friday 
I  expect.     That  will  be  a  good  day  to  choose." 

"  Yes — that'll  be  a  good  day.  Well,  'ere's  the  end  of  yer 
as  yer  are.  It'll  be  another  Peter  coming  back,  maybe.  Up 
along  they'll  change  yer." 

"  But  never  me  and  you,  Steve.  I  shall  love  you 
always." 

The  man  seized  him  almost  fiercely  by  the  shoulders  and 
looked  him  in  the  face.  "  Promise  me  that,  boy,"  he  said, 
"  promise  me  that.  Yer  most  all  I've  got  now.  But  I'm 
a  fool  to  ask  yer— of  coarse  yer '11  change.  I'm  an  ignorant 
fool." 

They  were  standing  in  the  middle  of  one  of  Stephen's 
brown  ploughed  fields,  and  tlie  cold,  sharp  day  was  drawing 
to  a  close  as  the  mist  stole  up  from  the  ground  and  the  dim 
sun  sank  behind  the  hedgerows. 

Peter  in  the  school  years  that  followed  always  had  this 
picture  of  Stephen  standing  in  the  middle  of  his  field — Ste- 
phen's rough,  red  brown  clothes,  his  beard  that  curled  a 
little,  his  brown  corduroys  that  smelt  of  sheep  and  hay,  the 
shining  brass  buttons  of  his  coat,  his  broad  back  and  large 
brown  hands,  his  mild  blue  eyes  and  nose  suddenly  square 
at  the  end  where  it  ought  to  ha\-e  been  round — this  Stephen 
Brant  raised  from  the  very  heart  of  the  land,  something  as 
strong  and  primitive  as  the  oaks  and  corn  and  running  stream 
that  made  his  background. 

Stephen  suddenly  caught  up  Peter  and  kissed  him  so  that 
the  boy  cried  out.  Then  he  turned  abruptly  and  left  him, 
and  Peter  did  not  see  him  again. 

He  said  his  farewells  to  the  tovm,  tenderly  and  gravely 
— the  cobbled  streets,  the  dear  market-place,  and  the  Tower, 
The  Bending  Mule  (here  there  were  farewells  to  be  said 
to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Figgis  and  old  Moses),  the  wooden  jetty, 
and  the  fishing-boats — then  the  beach  and  the  caves  and  the 
sea.  .  .  . 

Last  of  all,  the  Grey  Hill.  Peter  climbed  it  on  the  last 
afternoon  of  all.  He  was  quite  alone,  and  the  world  was 
very  still;  be  could  not  hear  the  sea  at  all.     At  last  he  was 


SCAW  HOUSE  6S 

af  the  top  and  leant  his  back  against  the  Giant's  Finger. 
Looking  round  there  are  the  hills  that  guard  Truro,  there 
are  the  woods  where  the  rabbits  are,  there  is  the  sea,  and  a 
wonderful  view  of  Treliss  rising  into  a  peak  which  is  The 
Man  at  Arms — and  the  smoke  of  the  town  mingled  with  the 
grey  uncertain  clouds,  and  the  clouds  mingled  with  the  sea, 
and  the  only  certain  and  assured  thing  was  the  strength  of 
the  Giant's  Finger.  That  at  least  he  could  feel  cold  and 
hard  against  his  hands.  He  felt  curiously  solemn  and  grave, 
and  even  a  little  tearful — and  he  stole  down,  through  the 
dusk,  softly  as  though  his  finger  were  on  his  lips. 

And  then  after  this  a  multitude  of  hurrying  sensations 
with  their  climax  in  a  very,  very  early  morning,  when  one 
dressed  with  a  candle,  when  one's  box  was  corded  and  one's 
attic  looked  strangely  bare,  when  there  was  a  surprising 
amount  to  eat  at  breakfast,  when  one  stole  downstairs  softly. 
He  had  said  good-bye  to  his  mother  on  the  previous  evening, 
and  she  had  kissed  him,  and  he  had  felt  uncomfortable  and 
shy. 

Then  there  were  Mrs.  Trussit  and  his  aunt  to  see  him  off, 
there  was  a  cab  and,  most  wonderful  of  all,  there  was  his 
father  coming  in  the  cab.'  That  was  a  dreadful  thing  and 
the  journey  to  the  station  seemed  endless  because  of  it. 
His  father  was  perfectly  silent,  and  any  thrill  that  Peter 
might  have  snatched  from  the  engines,  the  porters,  the 
whistles,  and  his  own  especial  carriage  were  negatived  by 
this  paralysing  occurrence.  He  would  have  liked  to  have 
said  something  himself,  but  he  could  only  think  of  things 
that  were  quite  impossible  like  "  How  funny  Mrs.  Trussit's 
nose  is  early  in  the  morning,"  "  I  wonder  what  old  Parlow's 
doing." 

It  was  terrible. 

He  was  in  his  carriage — they  were  hurrying,  every  one 
was  hurrying. 

His  father  suddenly  spoke. 

"  The  guard  will  see  to  you.  You  change  at  Exeter. 
Your  aunt  has  given  you  sandwiches."  A  little  pause,  and 
then :  "  You've  got  pluck.  You  stood  that  beating  well." 
Then  the  stern  face  passed,  and  the  grave  awful  figure  faded 
slowly  down  the  platform. 

Peter   felt  suddenly,  utterly,  completely  miserable,  and 


54  FORTITUDE 

alone.     Two  tears  rolled  slowly  down  his  cheeks.     He  blew 
his  nose^  and  the  train  started. 


ui 

And  so  this  first  run  into  liberty  begins  with  tears  and  a 
choke  in  the  throat  and  a  sudden  panting  desire  to  be  back 
in  the  dark  passages  of  Scaw  House.  Nor  did  the  fleeting 
swiftness  of  tlie  new  country  please  him.  Suddenly  one 
was  leaving  behind  all  those  known  paths  and  views,  so 
dimly  commonplace  in  the  having  of  them,  so  rosily  roman- 
tic in  the  tragic  wanting  of  them ! 

How  curious  that  Mrs.  Trussit,  his  aunt,  and  his  father 
should  appear  now  pathetically  affectionate  in  their  fare- 
wells of  him !  They  were  not — to  that  he  could  swear — 
and  yet  back  he  would  run  did  Honour  and  Destiny  allow 
him.     Above  all,  how  he  would  have  run  now  to  Stephen. 

He  felt  like  a  sharp  wound  the  horrible  selfishness  and 
indifference  of  his  parting  when  Stephen's  beard  had  been 
pressed  so  roughly  against  his  face  that  it  had  hurt  him — 
and  he  had  had  nothing  to  say.  .He  would  write  that  very 
night  if  They — the  unknown  Gods  to  wliose  kingdom  he 
journeyed — would  allow  him.  Tliis  comforted  him  a  little 
and  the  spirit  of  adventure  stirred  in  him  anew.  He  wiped 
his  eyes  for  the  last  time  with  the  crumpled  ball  of  his 
handkerchief,  sniffed  three  times  defiantly,  and  settled  to  a 
summary  of  the  passing  country,  cows,  and  hills  and  hedges, 
presently  the  pleasing  bustle  of  Truro  station,  and  then 
again  the  cows  and  hills  and  hedges.  On  parting  from 
Cornwall  he  discovered  a  new  sensation,  and  was  surprised 
that  he  should  feci  it.  He  did  not  know,  as  a  definite  fact, 
the  exact  moment  when  that  merging  of  Cornwall  into  Devon 
came,  and  yet,  strangely  in  his  spirit,  he  was  conscious  of  it. 
Now  he  was  in  a  foreign  country,  and  it  was  almost  as 
though  his  own  land  had  cast  him  out  so  that  the  sharp  ap- 
pealing farewell  to  the  Grey  Hill,  Trcliss,  and  the  sea 
was  even  more  poignant  than  his  farewell  to  his  friends  had 
been.  Once  more,  at  the  thought  of  all  the  ways  that  he 
loved  Cornwall,  the  choking  sob  was  in  his  throat  and  the 
hot  tears  were  in  his  eyes,  and  his  hands  were  clenched. 
Aad  then  he  remembered  that  London  was  not  in  Cornwall, 


SCAW  HOUSE  55 

and  if  he  were  ever  going  to  get  there  at  all  he  must  not 
mind  this  parting. 

"  What  the  devil  are  you  crying  ahout  ?  "  came  suddenly 
from  the  other  side  of  the  carriage.  He  looked  up,  and  saw 
that  there  was  an  old  gentleman  sitting  in  the  opposite 
corner.     He  had  a  red  fat  face  and  beautiful  white  hair. 

"  I'm  not  crying/'  said  Peter,  rather  defiantly. 

"  Oh !  yes,  you  are — or  you  were.  Supposing  you  share 
my  lunch  and  see  whether  that  will  make  things  any 
better." 

"  Thank  you  very  much,  but  I  have  some  sandwiches," 
said  Peter,  feeling  for  the  paper  packet  and  finding  it. 

'*  Well,  supposing  you  come  over  here  and  eat  yours  with 
me.  And  if  you  could  manage  to  help  me  with  any  of  mine 
I  should  be  greatly  indebted.  I  can't  bear  having  my  meals 
alone,  you  know." 

How  can  one  possibly  resist  it  when  the  Olympians  come 
down  so  amiably  from  their  heights  and  offer  us  their  hos- 
pitality.'' Moreover  the  Old  Gentleman  had,  from  his  bag, 
produced  the  most  wonderfully  shaped  parcels.  There  was 
certainly  a  meal,  and  Aunt  Jessie's  sandwiches  would  as- 
suredly be  thick  and  probably  no  mustard ! 

So  Peter  slipped  across  and  sat  next  to  the  Old  Gentleman, 
and  even  shared  a  rug.  He  ultimately  shared  a  great  many 
other  things,  Bke  chicken  and  tongue,  apples  and  pears  and 
plum  cake. 

"  Of  course,"  said  the  Old  Gentleman,  "  you  are  going  to 
school  and  probably  for  the  first  time — and  therefore  your 
legs  are  as  weak  as  pins,  you  have  a  cold  pain  in  the  middle 
of  your  chest,  and  you  have  an  intense  desire  to  see  your 
mother  again." 

Peter  admitted  that  this  was  true,  although  it  wasn't  his 
mother  whom  he  wished  to  see  so  much  as  a  friend  of  his 
called  Stephen,  and  one  or  two  places  like  the  Grey  Hill 
and  The  Bending  Mule.  All  this  interested  the  Old  Gen- 
tleman very  much. 

"  You,  too,  were  at  school  ?  "  Peter  inquired  politely. 

"  I  was,"  said  the  Old  Gentleman.    - 

"And  was  it  like  David  Copperfield?"  said  Peter. 

"  Parts  of  it — the  nice  parts.     School  was  the  best,  tb 
very  best  time  of  my  life,  my  boy,  and  so  you'll  find  it. 


tny 

7 


66  FORTITUDE 

This  was  immensely  reassuring,  and  Peter  felt  very 
much  cheered.  "  You  will  make  all  the  friends  of  your  life  \ 
there.  You  will  learn  to  be  a  man.  Dear  me !  "  The  Old 
Gentleman  coughed.  "  I  don't  know  what  I  would  have 
done  without  school.  You  must  have  courage,  you  know," 
he  added. 

"  I  heard  some  one  say  once,"  said  Peter,  "  that  courage  I 
is  the  most  important  thing  to  ha\'e.  It  isn't  life  that  mat-  I 
ters,  but  courage,  this  man  said." 

"  Bless  my  soul,"  the  Old  Gentleman  said,  "  how  old  are 
you,  boy  ^  " 

"  Twelve — ^nearly  thirteen,"  answered  Peter. 

"  Well,  the  more  you  see  of  boys  the  better.  You  might 
be  forty  by  the  way  you  talk.  You  want  games  and  fellows 
of  your  own  age,  that's  what  you  want.  Why  I  never  heard 
of  such  a  thing,  talking  about  life  at  your  age." 

Peter  felt  that  he  had  done  something  very  wrong,  al- 
though he  hadn't  the  least  idea  of  his  crime,  so  he  turned 
the  conversation. 

"  I  should  like  very  much,"  he  said,  "  to  hear  about  your 
school  if  you  wouldn't  mind." 

Then  the  Old  Gentleman  began  in  the  most  wonderful  way, 
and  to  hear  him  talk  you  would  imagine  that  school  was  the 
paradise  to  which  all  good  boys  were  sent — a  deliriously  de- 
lightful place,  with  a  shop  full  of  sweets,  games  without  end, 
friends  galore,  and  a  little  work  now  and  then  to  prevent 
one's  being  bored. 

Peter  listened  most  attentively  with  his  head  against  the 
Old  Gentleman's  very  warm  coat,  and  then  the  warmth  and 
the  movement  of  the  train  caused  the  voice  to  swim  further 
and  further  away  into  distance. 

"  Bless  my  soul !  "  Peter  heard  as  though  it  had  been 
whispered  at  the  end  of  the  train. 

"  Here's  Exeter,  young  man.  Your  father  said  you  were 
to  change  here." 

A  rubbing  of  eyes,  and  behold  a  stout  guard  in  front  of 
the  door  and  no  sign  of  the  Old  Gentleman  whatever,  but 
when  he  felt  for  his  ticket  in  his  side  pocket  he  found  also 
a  ghttering  sovereign  that  had  certainly  not  been  there  when 
be  went  asleep. 

All  this  waa  very  encouraging,  and  Peter  followed  the 


SCAW  HOUSE  57 

guard  across  the  Exeter  platform  hopefully  and  expectantly. 
Right  down  the  platform,  on  a  side  line,  was  a  little 
train  that  reminded  Peter  of  the  Treliss  to  Truro  one, 
so  helpless  and  incapable  did  it  look.  The  guard  put  him 
and  his  luggage  into  a  carriage  and  then  left  him  with  a 
last  word  as  to  Salton  being  his  destination.  He  waited 
here  a  very  long  time  and  nothing  happened.  He  must  have 
slept  again,  because  when  he  next  looked  out  of  the  window 
the  platform  was  full  of  people. 

He  realised  with  terror  that  they  were,  many  of  them, 
boys — boys  with  friends  and  boys  without.  He  watched 
them  with  a  great  feeling  of  desolation  and  homesickness  as 
they  flung  themselves  into  carriages  and  shouted  at  one  an- 
other. 

A  small  boy  with  a  very  red  face  and  a  round  fat  body, 
attended  by  a  tall,  thin  lady  in  black,  got  into  the  carriage, 
and  behaving  as  if  Peter  weren't  there  at  all,  leaned  out  of 
the   window. 

"  All  right,  mater.  That's  all  right.  I'll  tell  'em  about 
the  socks — old  Mother  Gill  will  look  after  that." 

"  You  won't  forget  to  send  me  a  post  card  to-night.  Will, 
dear,  will  jou?  " 

"  No,  mater,  that's  all  right.  I  say,  don't  you  bother  to 
wait  if  you  want  to  be  off." 

"  No,  dear,  I'd  like  to  wait.  Don't  forget  to  give  father's 
letter  to  Mr.  Raggett." 

"  All  right.  I  say  it's  rotten  for  you  waiting  about,  reaUy. 
Give  my  love  to  Floss !  " 

"Well,  perhaps  I  had  better  go.  This  train  seems  to  be 
late.     Good-bye,  dearest  boy." 

An  interval,  during  which  the  stout  boy  leaned  out  of  the 
window  and  was  embraced.  Soon  his  bowler  hat  was  flung 
wildly  on  to  the  rack  and  he  was  leaning  out  of  the  window, 
screaming : 

"  Cocker !  I  say.  Cocker !  Cocker !  Oh !  dash  it,  he's  going 
in  there.  Cocker!  Cocker!  Hullo,  Bisket!  going  strong? 
Cocker!  Oh!  there  he  is!  Hullo,  old  man!  Thought  I 
should  miss  you.  Come  on  in  here!  Thought  I'd  never 
get  rid  of  the  mater.     They  do  hang  about !  " 

A  small  boy  with  his  hat  on  one  side  got  into  the  carriage, 
stepped  on  Peter's  feet  without  apologising,  and  then  the 


68  FORTITUDE 

two  gentlemen  sat  down  at  the  other  end  of  the  carriage 
and  exchanged  experiences. 

"  What  sort  of  hols. }  " 

"  Oh,  pretty  rotten !  Got  nothing  for  Christmas  at  all 
except  a  measly  knife  or  two — governor  played  it  awfully 
low  down." 

"  I  rather  scored  because  my  sister  had  a  ripping  writing 
case  sent  to  her,  and  I  gave  her  a  rotten  old  book  in  ex- 
change, and  she  jolly  well  had  to." 

And  so  it  continued.  To  Peter 'it  was  completely  unin- 
telligible. The  boys  at  old  Parlow's  had  never  talked  like 
this.  He  was  suddenly  flung  into  a  foreign  country.  The 
dismay  in  his  heart  grew  as  he  remembered  that  he  was 
going  into  this  life  entirely  alone  and  witliout  a  friend  in 
the  world.  He  felt  that  he  would,  had  it  been  possible, 
gladly  have  exchanged  this  dreadful  plunge  for  a  beating 
from  his  father. 

At  any  rate,  after  that  there  were  friends  to  whom  one 
might  go — after  this?  .  .  . 

As  the  train  dragged  slowly  and  painfully  along  the 
dreariness  and  the  loneliness  increased.  The  dusk  fell,  and 
they  stopped,  as  it  seemed,  every  other  minute,  and  always 
Peter  thought  that  it  must  be  Salton  and  prepared  to  get 
out.  The  two  boys  in  his  carriage  paid  no  attention  to  him 
whate\-er,  and  their  voices  continued  incessantly,  and  always 
the  little  train  jolted  along  sleepily  wandering  through  the 
dark  country  and  carrying  him  to  unknown  terrors.  But  he 
set  his  teeth  hard  and  remembered  what  the  Old  Gentleman 
had  told  him.     He  would  fight  it  out  and  see  it  tlirough. 

"  'Tisn't  Life  that  matters,  but  the  Courage — " 

And  then  suddenly  the  train  stopped,  the  two  boys  flung 
themselves  at  the  window,  and  the  porter  outside,  like  a 
magician  who  kept  a  rabbit  in  a  bag,  suddenly  shouted 
"  Salton !  "  After  that  there  were  mixed  impressions.  He 
stood  alone  on  the  dark,  windy  platform  whilst  dark  figures 
passed  and  repassed  him.  Then  a  tall,  thin  Somebody 
•aid  "Are  you  Westcott.^"  and  Peter  said  "Yes,"  and  he 
was  con^-eyed  to  a  large  wagonette  already  crowded  with 
boys.  Then  there  was  a  great  deal  of  squeezing,  a  great 
deal  of  noise,  and  some  one  in  authority  said  from  some- 
where, "  Less  noise,  please." 


SCAW  HOUSE  59 

The  wagonette  started  in  a  j  olting  uncertain  way,  and  then 
they  seemed  to  go  on  for  ever  and  ever  between  dark  sweet- 
smelling  hedges  with  black  trees  that  swept  their  heads,  and 
the  faint  blue  of  the  evening  sky  on  the  horizon.  Every 
one  was  very  quiet  now,  and  Peter  fell  asleep  once  more  and 
dreamed  of  the  Old  Gentleman,  plum  cake,  and  Stephen. 

A  sudden  pause — the  sound  of  an  iron  gate  being  swung 
back,  and  Peter  was  awake  again  to  see  that  they  were 
driving  up  to  a  dark  heavy  building  that  looked  like  a 
hospital  or  a  prison. 

"  The  new  boys  please  follow  me,"  and  he  found  him- 
self, still  struggling  with  sleep,  blinded  by  the  sudden  light, 
following,  with  some  ten  others,  a  long  and  thin  gentleman 
who  wore  a  pince-nez.  His  strongest  feeling  was  that  he 
was  very  cold  and  that  he  hated  everybody  and  everything. 
He  heard  many  voices  somewhere  in  the  distance,  doors  were 
being  continually  opened  and  shut,  and  little  winds  blew 
down  the  dismal  passages.  They  were  suddenly  in  a  study 
lined  with  books  and  a  stout  rubicund  gentleman  with  a  gold 
watch  chain  and  a  habit  (as  Peter  at  once  discovered)  of 
whistling  through  his  teeth  was  writing  at  a  table. 

He  turned  round  when  he  heard  them  enter  and  watched 
them  for  a  moment  as  they  stood  by  the  door. 

"  Well,  boys  "  (his  voice  came  from  somewhere  near  his 
watch  chain),  "  come  and  shake  hands.     How  are  you  all.''  " 

Some  eager  boy  in  the  front  row,  with  a  pleasant  smile 
and  a  shrill  piping  voice  said,  "  Very  well,  thank  you,  sir," 
and  Peter  immediately  hated  him. 

Then  they  shook  hands  and  their  names  were  written  in 
a  book.  The  stout  gentleman  said,  "  Well,  boys,  here  you 
all  are.  Your  first  term,  you  know — very  important.  Work 
and  play — work  and  play.  Work  first  and  play  afterwards, 
and  then  we'll  be  friends.  Oh,  yes !  Supper  at  nine. 
Prayers  at  nine-thirty." 

They  were  all  bundled  out,  and  the  tall  man  with  pince- 
nez  said:  "  Now,  boys,  you  have  an  hour  before  supper," 
and  left  them  without  another  word  in  a  long  dark  passage. 
The  passage  was  hung  with  greatcoats  and  down  each  side 
of  it  were  play-boxes.  At  the  other  end,  mistily  and 
vaguely,  figures  passed. 

Peter  sat  down  on  one  of  the  play-boxes  and  saw,  to  his 


60  FORTITUDE 

disgust,  that  the  eager  boy  with  the  piping  voice  sat  down 
also. 

"  I  say,"  said  the  piping  boy,  "  don't  you  like  school 
awfully  ?  " 

"  No,  I  hate  it,"  said  Peter. 

"  Oh,  I  say !     What's  your  name  ?  " 

"  Peter." 

"  Peter !  Oh !  but  your  other  name.  The  fellows  will 
rag  you  most  awfully  if  you  tell  them  your  Christian 
name." 

"Westcott,  then." 

"  Mine's  Cheeseman.  I'm  going  to  like  everybody  here 
and  get  on.     I  say,  shall  we  be  chums }  " 

"  No." 

"Oh,  I  say!     Whynot.>" 

"  Because  I  don't  like  you." 

"  Oh,  I  say !  " 

"  In  another  minute  I'll  break  your  neck." 

"  Oh !  I  say !  "  The  piping  boy  sprang  up  from  the 
play-box  and  stood  away.  "  All  right,  you  needn't  be  ratty 
about  it!  I'll  tell  the  fellows  you  said  your  name  was  Peter! 
They'll  give  it  you." 

Aiid  the  piping  boy  moved  down  the  passage  whistling 
casually. 

After  this,  silence,  and  only  all  the  greatcoats  swaying  a 
little  in  the  draught  and  bulging  out  and  then  thinning  again 
as  though  there  were  two  persons  inside  them,  Peter  sat 
quite  motionless  for  a  long  time  with  his  face  in  liis  hands. 
He  was  very  tired  and  very  cold  and  very  hungry. 

A  crowd  advanced  towards  him — five  or  six  boys,  and 
one  large  fat  boy  was  holding  the  piping  one  by  the  car. 

"Oh,  I  say!  Let  me  go!  Let  me  go!  I'll  do  your 
boots  up,  really  I  will.  I'll  do  whatever  you  like!  Oh!  I 
say !     "There's  a  new  boy.     He  says  his  name  is  Peter !  " 

So  did  the  wretched  piping  one  endeavour  to  divert  at- 
tention from  his  own  person.  The  fat  boy,  accompanied 
by  a  complacent  satellite,  approached  Peter. 

*'  Hullo,  you.     What's  your  name?  " 

"  Westcott." 

"Tisn't.     It's  Peter." 

"  Peter  Westcott" 


scAW  HOUSE  er 

"  Well,  Mr.  Peter  Westcott,  stand  up  when  you're  spoken 
to  by  your  betters.     I  say,  hack  him  up,  you  fellows." 

Peter  was  "  hacked  "  up. 

"  Now,  what  do  you  mean  by  not  speaking  when  you're 
spoken  to." 

Peter  stood  square  and  faced  him. 

"  Oh !  you  won't  speak,  won't  you  ?  See  if  this  will  do 
it." 

Peter's  arm  and  ear  were  twisted;  he  was  also  hit  in  the 
mouth. 

He  was  still  silent. 

Some  one  in  the  back  of  the  crowd  said,  "Oh,  come  on, 
you  chaps — let's  leave  this  kid,  the  other  fellow's  more  fun." 

And  they  passed  on  bearing  the  piping  one  with  them. 

Peter  sat  down  again;  he  was  feeling  sick  and  his  head 
ached.  He  buried  his  head  in  the  greatcoat  that  hung 
above  him,  and  cried  quite  silently  for  a  very  long  time. 

A  bell  rang,  and  boys  ran  past  him,  and  he  ran  with 
them.  He  found  that  it  was  supper  and  that  he  was  sitting 
with  the  other  new  boys  at  the  bottom  of  the  table,  but  he 
could  not  eat  and  his  head  was  swimming.  Then  there  were 
prayers  and,  as  he  knelt  on  the  hard  floor  with  his  head 
against  the  form,  some  one  stuck  a  pin  into  the  soft  part 
of  his  leg  and  gave  him  great  pain. 

Then  at  last,  and  all  this  time  he  had  spoken  to  no  one, 
upstairs  to  bed.  A  tall,  thin  woman  in  shining  black  was 
at  the  head  of  the  stairs — she  read  out  to  the  new  boys  the 
numbers  of  their  dormitories  in  a  harsh,  metallic  voice.  Peter 
went  to  his,  and  found  it  a  long  room  with  twenty  beds, 
twenty  washing  basins,  and  twenty  chairs. 

One  last  incident. 

He  slept  and  was  dreaming.  He  was  climbing  the  Grey 
Hill  and  Stephen  was  following  him,  calling  on  him.  He 
remembered  in  his  dream  that  he  had  not  written  Stephen 
the  letter  that  he  had  promised,  and  he  turned  back  down  the 
hill.  Then  suddenly  the  ground  began  to  toss  under  his  feet, 
he  cried  for  Stephen,  he  was  flung  into  the  air,  he  was 
falling.  ... 

He  woke  and  found  that  he  was  lying  on  the  floor  amongst 
the  tumbled  sheets  and  blankets.  In  the  distance  he  could 
hear  stifled  laughter.     The  terror  of  that  awful  wakening 


62  FORTITUDE 

was  still  uf>on  him,  and  he  thought  for  a  moment  that  he 
would  die  because  his  heart  would  never  beat  again. 

Then  slowly  he  gathered  his  clothes  together  and  tried 
to  arrange  them  on  the  bed.  He  was  dreadfully  cold  and 
his  toes  stuck  out  at  the  end  of  the  bed.  He  could  not  cover 
them. 

But,  tired  as  he  was,  he  dared  not  fall  asleep  again,  lest 
there  should  come  once  more  that  dreadful  wakening. 


CHAPTER  V 

DAWSON'S,  THE  GATE  INTO  HELL 

I 

LETTER  from  Peter  to  Stephen: 

Dear,  dear  Steve, 

There's  a  noise  going  on  and  hoys  are  throwing  paper 
and  things  and  there's  another  hoy  jogging  my  elhorvs  so 
that  I  can't  hold  my  pen.  Dear  Steve,  I  hope  that  you  are 
very,  very  happy  as  I  am.  I  am  very  happy  here.  I  am 
in  the  hottom  form  hecause  my  sums  are  so  arvful  and  my 
master  beat  me  for  them  yesterday  hut  he  is  nothing  to  father. 
I  was  top  in  the  essay.  I  like  football — I  have  a  friend 
rvho  is  called  Galion  (I  don't  think  that  is  the  right  way  to 
spell  it.  He  says  that  it  is  like  a  treasure-ship).  He  is  a 
nice  hoy  and  Mrs.  Trussit  was  his  father's  housekeeper  once; 
his  father  writes  stories.  There  is  a  boy  I  hate  called 
Cheeseman,  and  one  called  Pollock.  Please  give  my  love 
to  Mrs.  Brant,  the  cows,  Mollie  and  the  pigs,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Figgis,  Mr.  Tan  and  all  my  friends.  Dear  Steve,  I  love 
you  very,  very,  very  much.     I  am  very  happy. 

Your  loving  friend, 

Peter  Westcott. 

A  letter  from  Stephen  to  Peter: 

Dear  Mr.  Peter, 

I  have  thought  every  day  of  you  and  I  was  mighty  glad 
to  get  your  bit  of  a  letter  fearing  that,  maybe,  thiccy  place 
in  Devon  might  have  driven  your  old  friends  out  of  your 
head.  I  am  no  hand  with  a  pen  and  it  is  taking  me  a  time 
to  write  this  so  I  will  just  say  that  I'm  right  glad  you're 
happy  and  that  I'll  greet  the  day  I  see  you  again,  and  that's 
it's  poor  trade  here  without  you. 

I  am  always,  your  friend, 

Stephen  Brant. 
63 


64  FORTTTUDE 

But  Peter  had  lied  in  his  letter.  He  was  not  in  any  way 
happy  at  all.  He  had  lied  because  he  knew  that  it  would 
have  hurt  Stephen  if  he  had  told  him  tlie  truth — and  the 
truth  was  something  that  must  be  met  with  clenched  teeth 
and  shoulders  set  back. 

Taking  him  at  the  end  of  the  first  week  one  finds  simple 
bewilderment  and  also  a  conviction  that  silence  is  the  best 
policy.  He  was  placed  in  the  lowest  form  because  of  his 
ignorance  of  Latin  and  Mathematics,  and  here  every  one 
was  younger  and  weaker.  During  school  hours  there  was 
comparative  peace,  and  he  sat  with  perplexed  brow  and  inky 
fingers,  or  was  sent  down  to  the  bottom  for  inattention.  It 
was  not  inattention  but  rather  a  complete  incapacity  for 
grasping  the  system  on  which  everything  worked.  Mean- 
while in  this  first  week  he  had  earned  a  reputation  and  made 
three  friends,  and  although  he  did  not  know  it  that  was  not 
a  bad  beginning. 

On  the  day  after  his  arrival  Peter,  after  midday  dinner, 
standing  desolately  in  the  playground  and  feeling  certain 
that  he  ought  to  be  playing  football  somewhere  but  com- 
pletely ignorant  as  to  the  place  where  lists  commonly  hung, 
saw  another  new  boy  and  hailed  him.  This  boy  he  had 
noticed  before — he  was  shapeless  of  body,  with  big,  round, 
good-tempered  eyes,  and  he  moved  more  slowly  than  any 
one  whom  Peter  had  ever  seen.  Nothing  stirred  him;  he 
did  not  mind  it  when  his  ears  were  pulled  or  his  arms  twisted, 
but  only  said  slowly,  "  Oh,  drop  it !  "  To  this  wonderful 
boy  Peter  made  approach. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  where  the  lists  are  for  football  ?  I 
ought  to  have  been  playing  yesterday  only  I  didn't  know 
where  to  look." 

The  slow  boy  smiled.  "  I'm  going  to  look  myself,"  he 
said,  "  come  on." 

And  then  two  things  happened.  First  sauntering  down 
the  playground  there  came  a  boy  whom  Peter  had  noticed 
on  that  first  morning  in  school — some  one  very  little  older 
than  Peter  and  not  ^-ery  much  bigger,  but  with  a  grace,  a 
dignity,  an  air  that  was  very  wonderful  indeed.  He  was 
a  dark  boy  with  his  hair  carelessly  tossed  over  his  forehead; 
he  was  very  clean  and  he  had  beautiful  hands.  To  Peter's 
rough  and  clumsy  figure  be  seemed  everything  that  a  boj 


SCAW  HOUSE  65 

should  be,  and,  in  his  mind,  he  had  called  him  "  Steerforth." 
As  this  boy  approached  there  suddenly  burst  into  view  a 
discordant  crowd  with  some  one  in  their  midst.  They  were 
shouting  and  laughing,  and  Peter  could  hear  that  some  one 
was  crying.  The  crowd  separated  and  formed  a  ring  and 
danced  shouting  round  a  very  small  and  chubby  boy  who 
was  standing  crying  quite  desperately,  with  his  head  buried 
in  his  arm.  Every  now  and  then  the  infant  was  knocked 
by  one  boy  in  the  ring  into  another  boy's  arms,  and  so  was 
tossed  from  side  to  side. 

The  hopeless  sound  of  the  chubby  one's  crying  caused 
Peter  suddenly  to  go  red  hot  somewhere  inside  his  chest, 
and  like  a  bullet  from  a  gun  he  was  into  the  middle  of  the 
circle,  "  You  beasts !  You  beasts,"  he  sobbed  hysterically. 
He  began  to  hit  wildly,  with  his  head  down,  at  any  one  near 
him,  and  very  soon  there  was  a  glorious  melee.  The  crowd 
roared  with  laughter  as  they  flung  the  two  small  boys  against 
one  another,  then  suddenly  one  of  the  circle  got  a  wild  blow 
in  the  eye  from  Peter's  fist  and  went  staggering  back,  an- 
other was  kicked  in  the  shins,  a  third  was  badly  winded. 
Peter  had  lost  all  sense  of  place  or  time,  of  reason  or  sanity; 
he  was  wild  with  excitement,  and  the  pent-up  emotions  of 
the  last  five  days  found  magnificent  overwhelming  freedom. 
He  did  not  know  whether  he  were  hit  or  no,  once  he  was 
down  and  in  an  instant  up  again — once  a  face  was  close  to 
his  and  he  drove  hard  at  the  mouth — but  "he  was  small  and  his 
arms  and  legs  were  short.  Indeed  it  would  have  gone  badly 
with  him  had  there  not  been  heard,  in  all  the  roar  of  battle, 
the  mystic  whisper  "  Binns,"  and  in  an  instant,  as  the  snow 
flies  before  the  sun,  so  had  that  gallant  crowd  disappeared. 
Only  the  small  cause  of  the  disturbance  and  Peter  remained. 
The  tall  form  of  a  master  passed  slowly  down  the  play- 
ground, but  it  appeared  that  he  had  seen  nothing,  and  he 
did  not  speak.  The  small  boy  was  gazing  at  Peter  with 
wide-opened  eyes,  large  in  a  white  face  on  which  were  many 
tear  stains.  Peter,  who  was  conscious  now  that  blood  was 
pouring  from  a  cut  in  his  cheek,  that  one  of  his  teeth  was 
missing  and  that  one  of  his  eyes  was  fast  closing,  was  about 
to  speak  to  him  when  he  was  aware  that  his  "  Steerforth  " 
had  sprung  from  nowhere  and  was  advancing  gracefully  to 
meet  him.     Peter's  heart  beat  very  fast. 


66  FORTITUDE 

The  boy  smiled  at  him  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"  I  say,  shake  hands.  You've  got  pluck — my  eye !  I 
never  saw  such  a  rag !  " 

Peter  shook  hands  and  was  speechless. 

"  What's  your  name  ?  " 

"  Westcott." 

"  Mine's  Cardillac.  It  isn't  spelt  as  it's  spoken,  you 
know.  C-a-r-d-i-1-l-a-c.  I'm  in  Wliite's — what  do  you  say 
to  places  next  each  other  at  table?  " 

"  Rather."  Peter's  face  was  crimson.  "  Thanks  most 
awfully."     He  stammered  in  his  eagerness. 

"  Right  you  are — see  you  after  chapel."  The  boy  moved 
away. 

Peter  said  something  to  the  infant  whom  he  had  delivered, 
and  was  considering  where  he  might  most  unobtrusively  wash 
when  he  was  once  more  conscious  of  some  one  at  his  elbow. 
It  was  the  slow  boy  who  was  smiling  at  him. 

"  I  say,  you're  a  sight.     You'd  better  wash,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  I  was  just  thinking  of  that  only  I  didn't  quite  know 
where  to  go." 

"  Come  with  me — I'll  get  round  Mother  Gill  all  right. 
She  likes  me.  You've  got  some  cheek.  Prester  and  Banks 
Mi,  and  all  sorts  of  fellows  were  in  that  crowd.  You  landed 
Prester  nicely."     He  chuckled.     "What's  your  name.^  " 

"  Westcott." 

"  Mine's  Galleon." 

"  Galleon  ?  "  Peter's  eyes  shone.  "  I  say,  you  didn't 
ever  have  a  housekeeper  called  Mrs.  Trussit?  " 

"  Trussit  ?  Yes,  rather,  of  course  I  remember,  when  I 
was  awfully  small." 

"  Why,  she's  ours  now !  Then  it  must  be  your  father  who 
writes  books !  " 

"  Yes,  rather.     He's  most  awfully  famous !  " 

Peter  stopped  still,  his  mouth  open  with  excitement. 
I      Of  all  the  amazing  things!     What  doesn't  life  give  you 
[if  you  trust  it! 

n 

But  before  it  became  a  question  of  individuals  there  is  the 
place  to  be  considered.     This  Dawson's  of  twenty  years  ago 


SCAW  HOUSE  67 

does  not  exist  now  nor,  let  us  pray  the  Fates,  are  there  others 
like  it.  It  is  not  only  with  bitterness  that  a  boy  whom 
Dawson's  had  formed  would  look  back  on  it  but  also  with 
a  dim,  confused  wonder  that  he  had  escaped  with  a  straight 
soul  and  a  straight  body  from  that  Place.  There  were 
many,  very  many  indeed,  who  did  not  escape,  and  it  would 
indeed  have  been  better  for  them  all  had  they  died  before 
they  were  old  enough  to  test  its  hospitality.  If  any  of  those 
into  whose  hands  tliis  story  of  Peter  may  fall  were,  by  the 
design  of  God,  themselves  trained  by  the  place  of  which  I 
speak,  they  will  understand  that  all  were  not  as  fortunate  as 
Peter — and  for  those  others  there  should  be  sympathy.  .  .  . 

To  Peter  indeed  it  all  came  very  slowly  because  he  had 
known  so  little  before.  He  had  not  been  a  week  in  the  place 
before  there  were  very  many  things  that  he  was  told — there 
were  other  things  that  he  saw  for  himself. 

There  is,  for  instance,  at  the  end  of  the  third  week,  the 
incident  of  Ferris,  the  Captain  of  the  School.  He  was  as 
a  God  in  Peter's  eyes,  he  was  greater,  more  wonderful  than 
Stephen,  than  any  one  in  the  world.  His  word  was 
law.  .  .  . 

One  late  afternoon  Peter  cleaned  plates  for  him  in  his 
study,  and  Ferris  watched  him.  Ferris  was  kind  and  talked 
about  many  things  out  of  his  great  wisdom,  and  then  he 
asked  Peter  whether  he  would  always  like  to  be  his  fag, 
and  Peter,  delighted,  said  "  Yes." 

Then  Ferris  smiled  and  spoke,  dropping  his  voice.  Three 
weeks  earlier  Peter  would  not  have  understood,  but  now  he 
understood  quite  well  and  he  went  very  white  and  broke 
from  the  room,  leaving  the  plates  where  they  were — and 
Cheeseman  became  Ferris'  fag — 

This  was  all  very  puzzling  and  perplexing  to  Peter. 

But  after  that  first  evening  when  he  had  hidden  his  head, 
in  the  greatcoat  and  cried,  he  had  shown  no  sign  of  fear 
and  he  soon  found  that,  on  that  side  of  Life,  things  became 
easy.  He  was  speedily  left  alone,  and  indeed  he  must  have 
been,  in  spite  of  his  small  size,  something  of  a  figure  even 
then. 

His  head  was  so  very  firm  on  his  shoulders,  his  grey  eyes 
were  so  very  straight,  and  his  lip  curled  in  a  disagreeable 
way  when  he  was  displeased;  he  was  something  of  the  bull- 


68  FORTITUDE 

dog,  and  even  at  this  early  period  the  First  and  Second 
forms  showed  signs  of  meek  surrender  to  his  leadership. 
But  he  was,  of  course,  not  happy — he  was  entirely  miser- 
able. He  would  be  happier  later  on  when  he  had  been  able 
to  arrange  all  these  puzzling  certainties  so  different  from 
those  dazzUng  imaginations  that  he  had  painted.  How 
strange  of  him  to  have  been  so  glad  to  leave  Stephen  and  the 
others — even  old  Curtis!  What  could  he  have  thought  was 
coming ! 

He  remembered  as  though  it  had  been  another  life  that 
Christmas  Eve,  the  fight,  the  beating,  the  carols.  .  .  . 

And  yet,  with  it  all,  with  the  dreariness  and  greyness  and 
fierceness  and  dirtiness  of  it  all,  he  would  not  cliange  it  for 
those  earlier  things — this  was  growing,  this  was  growing  up ! 

He  was  certainly  happier  after  his  meeting  with  Cardillac 
— "  Cards  "  as  he  was  always  called.  Here  was  a  hero  in- 
deed! Not  to  displace,  of  course,  Stephen,  who  remained 
as  a  stained-glass  window  remains,  to  be  looked  at  and 
treasured  and  remembered — but  here  was  a  living  wonder! 
Every  movement  that  Cards  made  was  astounding,  and  not 
only  Peter  felt  it.  Even  the  masters  seemed  to  suggest  that 
he  was  different  from  the  rest  and  watched  him  admiringly. 
Cards  was  only  fourteen,  but  he  had  seen  the  world.  He 
had  been  with  his  mother  (his  father  was  dead)  about 
Europe,  he  knew  London,  he  had  been  to  the  theatres; 
school,  he  gave  them  all  to  understand,  was  an  interim  in  the 
social  round.  He  took  Peter's  worsliip  very  easily  and  went 
for  walks  with  him  and  talked  in  a  wonderful  way.  He 
admired  Peter's  strength. 

Peter  found  that  Galleon — Bobby  Galleon — ^was  disap>- 
pointing,  not  very  interesting.  He  had  never  read  his 
father's  books,  and  he  couldn't  tell  Peter  very  much  about 
the  great  man;  he  was  proud  of  him  but  rather  reserved. 
He  had  not  many  ideas  about  anything  and  indeed  when 
he  went  for  a  walk  with  Peter  was  usually  very  silent,  al- 
though always  in  a  good  temper.  Cards  thought  Galleon 
very  dull  and  never  spoke  to  him  if  he  could  avoid  doing  so, 
and  Peter  was  sometimes  quite  angry  with  Galleon  because 
he  would  "  turn  up  so  "  when  one  might  have  had  Cards  to 
oneself. 

Peter's  ouiin  feeling  about  it  all  when  half  term  arrived 


SCAW  HOUSE  69 

Cwas  tHat  one  must  just  stand  with  one's  back  to  the  wall 
if  one  was  to  avoid  being  hurt.  He  did  not  now  plunge 
into  broils  to  help  other  people;  he  found  that  it  did  not 
in  reality  help  them  and  that  it  only  meant  that  he  got 
kicked  as  well  as  the  other  boy.  One's  life  was  a  diligent 
/•Vatchfulness  with  the  end  in  view  of  avoiding  the  enemy. 
vXhe  enemy  was  to  be  found  in  any  shape  and  form;  there 
was  no  security  by  night  or  day,  but  on  the  whole  life  was 
safer  if  one  spoke  as  little  as  possible  and  stuck  to  the  wall. 
There  were  Devils — most  certainly  Devils — roaming  the 
world,  and  as  he  watched  the  Torture  and  the  Terror  and 
then  the  very  dreadful  submission,  he  vowed  with  clenched 
lips  that  he  would  never  Submit  .  .  .  and  so  gradually  he 
was  learning  the  truth  of  that  which  Frosted  Moses  had 
spoken  .  .  . 

Cornwall,  meanwhile — the  Grey  Hill,  Scaw  House,  the 
hills  above  Truro — remained  to  him  during  these  weeks,  se- 
curely hidden. 

Ill 

There  remains  to  be  chronicled  of  that  first  term  only  the 
Comber  Fight  and  a  little  conversation,  one  windy  day,  with 
Galleon.  The  small  boy,  by  name  Beech  Minimus,  whom 
Peter  had  defended  on  that  earlier  occasion,  had  attached 
himself  with  unswerving  fidelity  to  his  preserver.  He  was 
round  and  fat,  and  on  his  arrival  had  had  red  cheeks  and 
sparkling  eyes — now  he  was  pale  and  there  were  lines  under 
his  eyes ;  he  started  if  any  one  spoke  to  him,  and  was  always 
eager  to  hide  when  possible.  Peter  was  very  sorry  for  him, 
but,  after  a  month  of  the  term  had  passed  he  had,  himself, 
acquired  the  indifference  of  those  that  stand  with  their  backs 
to  the  wall.  Beech  would  go  on  any  kind  of  errand  for 
him  and  would  willingly  have  died  for  him  had  it  been  re- 
quired of  him — he  did  indeed  during  the  hours  that  he  was 
left  in  peace  in  his  dormitory,  picture  to  himself  wonderful 
scenes  in  which  he  saved  Peter  from  horrible  deaths  and  for 
his  own  part  perished. 

It  may  have  been  that  he  clung  to  Peter  partly  because 
there  was  more  safety  in  his  neighbourhood,  for  amongst 
the  lower  school  boys  at  any  rate,  very  considerable  fear 


70  FORTITUDE 

of  Peter  was  to  be  noticed,  but  Beech's  large  eyes  raised 
to  the  other  boy's  face  or  his  eager  smile  as  he  did  something 
that  Peter  required  of  him,  spoke  devotion. 

Beech  Minimus  was  forced,  however,  for  the  good  of  Ids 
soul,  to  suffer  esi)ecial  torture  between  the  hours  of  eight 
and  nine  in  the  evening.  It  was  the  custom  that  the  Lower 
School  should  retire  from  preparation  at  eight  o'clock,  it 
being  supposed  that  at  that  hour  the  Lower  School  went  to 
bed.  But  Authority,  blinded  by  trustful  good  nature  and 
being  engaged  at  that  hour  with  its  wine  and  dinner,  left 
the  issue  to  chance  and  the  Gods,  and  human  nature  being 
what  it  is,  the  Lower  School  triumphed  in  freedom.  There 
was  a  large,  empty  class  room  at  the  back  of  the  building 
where  much  noise  might  safely  be  made,  and  in  this  place 
and  at  this  hour  followed  the  nightly  torture  of  Beech  and 
his  minute  companions — that  torture  named  by  the  Gods, 
"  Discipline,"  by  the  Authorities,  "  Boys  will  be  Boys,"  by 
the  Parent,  "  Learning  to  be  a  Man,"  and  by  the  Lower 
School  "  A  Rag."  Beech  and  his  companions  had  not  as  yet 
a  name  for  it.  Peter  was,  as  a  rule,  left  to  his  own  thoughts 
and  spent  the  hours  amongst  the  greatcoats  in  the  passage 
reading  David  Copperfield  or  talking  in  whispers  to  Bobby 
Galleon.  But  nevertheless  he  was  not  really  indifferent,  he 
was  horribly  conscious  even  in  his  sleep,  of  Beech's  shrill 
"  Oh !  Comber,  don't !  Please,  Comber,  oh !  "  and  Beech 
being  in  the  same  dormitory  as  himself  he  noticed,  almost 
against  his  will,  that  shivering  little  mortal  as  he  crept  into 
bed  and  cowered  beneath  the  sheets  wondering  whether  be- 
fore morning  he  would  be  tossed  in  sheets  or  would  find  his 
bed  drenched  in  water  or  would  be  beaten  with  hair  brushes. 
Peter's  philosophy  of  standing  it  in  silence  and  hitting  back 
if  he  were  himself  attacked  was  scarcely  satisfactory  in 
Beech's  case,  and,  again  and  again,  his  attention  would  be 
dragged  away  from  his  book  to  that  other  room  where  some 
small  boys  were  learning  lessons  in  life. 

The  head  of  this  pleasant  sport  was  one  Comber,  a  large, 
pale-faced  boy,  some  years  older  than  his  place  in  tlie  school 
justified,  but  of  a  crass  stupidity,  a  greedy  stomach  and  a 
vicious  cruelty.  Peter  had  already  met  him  in  football  and 
had  annoyed  him  by  collaring  him  violently  on  one  occasion, 
it  being  the  boy's  habit,  owing  to  his  size  and  reputation,  to 


SCAW  HOUSE  71 

run  down  the  field  in  the  Lower  School  game,  unattacked. 
Peter's  hatred  of  him  grew  more  intense  week  by  week; 
some  days  after  Mid-Term,  it  had  swollen  into  a  passion. 
He  finally  told  Bobby  Galleon  one  day  at  luncheon  that  on 
that  very  evening  he  was  going  to  defy  this  Comber.  Galleon 
besought  him  not  to  do  this,  pointing  out  Comber's  greater 
strength  and  the  natural  tendency  of  the  Lower  School  to 
follow  their  leader  blindly.  Peter  said  nothing  in  reply  but 
watched,  when  eight  o'clock  had  struck  and  the  Lower 
School  had  assembled  in  the  class  room,  for  his  moment.  It 
was  a  somewhat  piteous  spectacle.  Comber  and  some  half 
a  dozen  friends  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  forty  boys 
ranging  in  years  from  eight  to  twelve,  waiting  with  white 
faces  and  propitiatory  smiles,  eager  to  assist  in  the  Torture 
if  they  only  might  themselves  be  spared. 

"  Now  you  chaps,"  this  from  Comber — "  we'll  have  a 
Gauntlet.     I  votes  we  make  young  Beech  run  first." 

"Rather!  Come  on.  Beech — you've  jolly  well  got  to." 
"  Buck  up,  you  funk !  "  from  those  relieved  that  they  were 
themselves,  for  the  instant,  safe. 

Peter  was  sitting  on  a  bench  at  the  back  of  the  room — 
he  stood  on  the  bench  and  shouted,  "  You're  a  beast. 
Comber." 

There  was  immediate  silence — every  one  turned  first  to 
Comber,  and  then  back  to  Peter.  Comber  paused  in  the 
preparation  of  the  string  whip  that  he  was  making,  and  his 
face  was  crimson. 

"  Oh,  it's  you,  you  young  skunk,  is  it  ?  Bring  him  here 
some  of  you  fellows." 

Eager  movements  were  made  in  his  direction,  but  Peter, 
still  standing  on  his  bench,  shouted:    "I  claim  a  fight." 

There  was  silence  again — a  silence  now  of  incredulity 
and  amazement.  But  there  was  nothing  to  be  done;  if  any 
one  claimed  a  fight,  by  all  the  rules  and  traditions  of  Daw- 
son's he  must  have  it.  But  that  Westcott,  a  new  boy  and 
in  the  bottom  form  should  challenge  Comber!  Slowly,  and 
as  it  were  against  their  will,  hearts  beat  a  little  faster,  faces 
brightened.  Of  course  Westcott  would  be  most  hopelessly 
beaten,  but  might  not  this  prove  the  beginning  of  the  end  of 
their  tyrant? 

Meanwhile,  Comber  between  his  teeth:  "  All  right,  you 


72  FORTITUDE 

young  devil,  111  give  you  such  a  hiding  as  you  damned 
well  won't  forget.  Then  we'll  treat  you  properly  after- 
wards." 

A  ring  was  made,  and  there  was  silence,  so  that  the  pre- 
fects might  not  be  attracted,  because  fighting  in  the  Lower 
School  was  forbidden.  Coats  were  taken  off  and  Peter 
faced  Comber  with  the  sensation  of  attacking  a  mountain. 
Peter  knew  nothing  about  fighting  at  all,  but  Comber  had 
long  subsisted  on  an  easy  reputation  and  he  was  a  coward  at 
heart.  There  swung  into  Peter's  brain  the  picture  of  The 
Bending  Mule,  the  crowding  faces,  the  swinging  lamp,  Ste- 
phen with  the  sledge-hammer  blow  ...  it  was  the  first  time 
for  weeks  that  he  had  thought  of  Treliss. 

He  was  indifferent — he  did  not  care;  things  could  not  be 
worse,  and  he  did  not  mind  what  happened  to  him,  and 
Comber  minded  very  much  indeed,  and  he  had  not  been  hit 
in  the  face  for  a  long  time.  His  arms  went  round  like 
windmills,  and  the  things  that  he  would  like  to  have  done 
were  to  pull  Peter's  hair  from  its  roots  and  to  bite  him  on 
the  arm.  As  the  fight  proceeded  and  he  knew  that  his  face 
was  bleeding  and  tli^t  the  end  rf  his  nose  had  no  sensation 
in  it  at  all  he  kicked  with  his  feet  and  was  conscious  of  cries 
that  he  was  not  playing  the  game.  Infuriated  that  his  re- 
cent supporters  should  so  easily  desert  him,  he  now 
flung  himself  upon  Peter,  who  at  once  gave  way  beneath  the 
bigger  boy's  weight.  Comber  then  began  to  bite  and  tear 
and  scratch,  uttering  shrill  screams  of  rage  and  kicking  on 
the  floor  with  his  feet.  He  was  at  once  pulled  away,  as- 
sured by  those  dearest  friends  who  had  so  recently  and 
merrily  assisted  him  in  his  "  rags  "  that  he  was  not  playing 
the  game  and  was  no  sportsman.  He  was  moreover  a 
ludicrous  sight,  his  trousers  bein(;  torn,  one  blue-black 
eye  staring  from  a  confused  outline  of  dust  and  blood,  his 
hair  amazingly  on  end. 

There  were  also  many  cries  of  "  Shame,  Comber,"  "  Dirty 
game,"  and  even  "  Well  played  young  Westcott !  " 

He  knew  as  he  wept  bitter  tears  into  his  blood-stained 
hands  that  his  reign  was  at  an  end. 

There  were  indeed,  for  the  time  at  any  rate,  no  more 
"  rags,"  and  Peter  might,  an'  he  would,  have  reigned  mag- 
nificently over  the  Lower  School.     But  he  was  as  silent  and 


SCAW  HOUSE  73 

aloof  as  ever,  and  was  considered  "  a  sidey  devil,  but  j  oily 
plucky,  by  Gad." 

And  for  himself  he  got  at  any  rate  the  more  continued 
companionship  of  Cards,  who  languidly,  and,  perhaps  a 
younger  Sir  Willoughby  Patterne  "  with  a  leg,"  admired 
his  muscle. 

rv 

Finally,  towards  the  end  of  the  term,  Peter  and  Bobby 
Galleon  may  be  seen  sitting  on  a  high  hill.  It  is  a  Sunday 
afternoon  in  spring,  and  far  away  there  is  a  thin  line  of 
faintly  blue  hills.  Nearer  to  view  there  are  grey  heights 
more  sharply  outlined  and  rough,  like  drawing  paper — 
painted  with  a  green  wood,  a  red-roofed  farm,  a  black 
church  spire,  and  a  brown  ploughed  field.  Immediately 
below  them  a  green  hedge  hanging  over  a  running  stream 
that  has  caught  the  blue  of  the  sky.  Above  them  vast 
swollen  clouds  flooding  slowly  with  the  faint  yellow  of  the 
coming  sunset,  hanging  stationary  above  the  stream  and 
seeming  to  have  flung  to  earth  some  patches  of  their  colour 
in  the  first  primroses  below  the  hedge.  A  rabbit  watches, 
his  head  out  of  his  hole. 

The  boys'  voices  cut  the  air. 

"  I  say,  Bobby,  don't  you  ever  wonder  about  things — ■ 
you  never  seem  to  want  to  ask  questions." 

"  No,  I  don't  suppose  I  do.  I'm  awfully  stupid. 
Father  says  so." 

"  It's  funny  your  being  stupid  when  your  father's  so 
clever." 

"  Do  you  mind  my  being  stupid  ?  "  .^ 

/^     "  No — only  I'd  like  you  to  want  to  know  things — ^things    J 
{  like  what  people  are  like  inside — their  thinking  part  I  mean,    » 
^not  their   real   insides.     People  like   Mother   Gill   and   old 
Binns  and  Prester  Ma:  and  then  what  one's  going  to  do 
when  one's  grown  up — you  never  want  to  know  that." 

"  No,  it'll  just  come  I  suppose.  Of  course,  I  shan't  be 
clever  like  the  governor." 

"  No,  I  don't  think  you  will." 

Once  again :  "  Do  you  mind  my  being  so  stupid,  Peter  ?  " 

"  No — I'm  awfully  stupid  too.  But  I  like  to  wonder 
about  things.     There  was  once  a  man  I  met  at  home  witb 


74  FORTITUDE 

rings  and  things  who  lived  in  London.  .  .  ."  Peter  stops, 
Galleon  wouldn't  be  interested  in  that. 

"  Anyhow,  you  know,  you've  got  Cards — he's  an  awfully 
clever  chap." 

"  Yes,  he's  wonderful,"  Peter  sighs,  "  and  he's  seen  such 
a  lot  of  things." 

"  Yes,  but  you  know  I  don't  think  Cards  really  cares 
for  you  as  much  as  I  do."  This  is  an  approach  to  senti- 
ment, and  Peter  brushes  it  hastily  aside: 

"  I  like  you  both  awfully.  But  I  say,  won't  it  be  splen- 
did to  be  grown  up  in  London  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know — lots  of  fellows  don't  like  it." 

"  That's  nothing,"  Peter  says  slowly,  "  to  do  with  its  not 
being  splendid !  " 

And  the  rabbit,  tired  of  listening  to  such  tiresome  stuff, 
thinks  that  they  must  be  very  young  boys  indeed. 


CHAPTER  VI 

A  LOOKING-GLASS,  A  SILVER  MATCH-BOX,  A  GLASS 
OF  WHISKY,  AND— VOX  POPULI 


PETER,  thirteen  to  sixteen! — and  left,  so  it  appears, 
very  much  the  same,  as  far  as  actual  possessions  go, 
at  the  end  of  it  as  at  the  poverty-struck  commencement. 
Friendship,  Honour,  Glory — how  these  things  came  and 
went  with  him  during  these  years  might  have  a  book  to 
themselves  were  it  not  that  our  business  is  with  a  wider 
stage  and  more  lasting  issues — and  there  is  but  little  room 
for  a  full-fledged  chronicle.  Though  Dawson's — and  to 
take  the  history  of  Miss  Gill  only — of  her  love  affair  with 
the  curate,  of  her  final  desperate  appeal  to  him  and  of  his 
ultimate  confession  that  he  was  married  already — provides 
a  story  quite  sufficient  for  three  excellent  volumes.  Or  there 
is  the  history  of  Benbow,  that  bucolic  gentleman  into  whose 
study  we  led  Peter  a  chapter  or  two  ago.  Head  for  this 
year  or  two  of  Dawson's — soon  to  be  head  of  nothing  but 
the  dung-heap  and  there  to  crow  only  dismally — with  a 
child-like  Mrs.  Benbow,  led  unwittingly  to  Dawson's  as  a 
lamb  to  the  slaughter-house — later  to  flee,  crying,  back  to  her 
hearth  and  home,  her  life  smashed  to  the  tinest  pieces  and  no 
brain  nor  strength  to  put  it  together  again.  Or  there  is 
the  natural  and  interesting  progression,  on  the  part  of  any 
child,  behind  whose  back  those  iron  gates  of  Dawson's  have 
swung,  from  innocence  to  knowledge,  from  knowledge  to 
practice,  from  practice  to  miserable  Submission,  Conceal- 
ment, and  a  merry  prospective  Hell — this  is  a  diverting 
study  with  which  it  would  be  easy  to  fill  these  pages.  .  .  . 

But  the  theme  is  Peter's  education,  and  Dawson's  is  only 
an  incident  to  that  history — an  incident  that  may  be  taken 
by  the  percipient  reader,  for  a  most  admirable  Symbol — 
even  an  early  rehearsal  of  a  Comedy  entitled  "  How 
to  Learn  to  be  a  Man,  or  The  World  as  a  Prancing 
Ground."  .  .  . 

But  with  Peter,  if  you  take  him  from  that  first  asking 

75 


76  FORTITUDE 

Mrs.  Tmssit  (swinging  his  short  legs  from  the  table  and 
diving  into  the  mixed  biscuit  tin).  "  Is  it,  Mrs.  Trussit, 
like  David  Copperfield  ?  "...  to  his  meeting  of  her  again, 
he  still  rather  short-legged  but  no  longer  caring  over  much 
for  mixed  biscuits,  in  his  sixteenth  year,  with  Dawson's 
over  and  done  with — "  No,  Mrs.  Trussit,  not  in  the  least 
like,"  and  grimly  said  in  addition,  the  changes,  alterations 
and  general  growing-up  Development  may  be  said  to  be 
inside  him  rather  than  out,  and  there  they  are  vital  enough. 

With  those  three  and  a  half  years  it  is  a  case  of  Things 
sticking  out,  like  hillocks  in  a  flat  country,  and  it  is  retro- 
spection rather  than  impressions  at  the  time  that  show  what 
mattered  and  what  did  not.  But,  on  the  whole,  the  vital 
things  at  Dawson's  are  pretty  plain  to  the  eye  and  must  be 
squeezed  into  a  chapter  as  best  they  can. 

Treliss,  as  it  appeared  in  the  holidays,  seemed  to  Peter 
to  change  very  little.  His  relations  with  his  father  were 
curiously  passive  during  this  time,  and  suggested,  in  their 
hint  of  future  developments,  something  ominous  and  uneasy. 
They  scarcely  ever  spoke  to  one  another,  and  it  was  Peter's 
object  to  avoid  the  house  as  often  as  possible,  but  in  his 
father's  silence  now  (Peter  himself  being  older  and  in- 
tuitively sharper  as  to  the  reason  of  things)  he  saw  active 
dislike,  and  even,  at  times,  a  suggested  fear.  Outwardly 
they — his  father  his  grandfather,  his  aunt,  Mrs.  Trussit 
— had  changed  not  at  all;  his  grandfather  the  same  old 
creature  of  grey  hairs  and  cushions  and  rugs,  his  father 
broad  and  square  and  white  in  the  face  with  his  black  hair 
carefully  brushed,  his  aunt  with  her  mittens  and  trembling 
bands  and  silly  voice,  Mrs.  Trussit  with  her  black  silk 
gown  and  stout  prosperous  face — Oh!  they  were  all  there, 
but  he  fancied — and  this  might  easily  be  imagination — that 
they,  like  the  portraits  of  the  old  Westcotts  about  the  walls, 
tiratched  him,  as  he  grew,  knowing  that  ever,  as  the  months 
passed,  the  day  came  nearer  when  father  and  son  must  come 
to  terms.  And  beyond  this  he  had,  even  at  tliis  early  time, 
a  consciousness  that  it  was  round  his  mother's  room  that 
the  whole  matter  hung — his  mother  whom  he  saw  once  or 
twice  a  week  for  a  very  little  time  in  the  morning,  when  that 
old  terror  of  the  white  silent  room  would  creep  upon  him 
and  bold  him  tongue-tied. 


SCAW  HOUSE  77 

And  yet,  with  it  all,  lie  knew,  as  every  holiday  came, 
more  clearly,  that  again  and  again  they,  his  mother  and 
himself,  were  on  the  verge  of  speech  or  action.  He  could 
see  it  in  her  eyes,  her  beautiful  grey  eyes  that  moved  him 
so  curiously.  There  were  days  when  he  was  on  the  edge 
of  a  rush  of  questions,  and  then  something  held  him  back 
— perhaps  the  unconscious  certainty  that  his  mother's  an- 
swers would  precipitate  his  relations  with  his  father — a,nd 
he  was  not,  as  yet,  ready. 

Anyhow  a  grim  place,  Scaw  House,  grimmer  with  every 
return  to  it,  and  not  a  brightly  coloured  interlude  to  Daw- 
son's, grim  enough  in  its  own  conditions.  The  silence  that 
was  gradually  growing  with  Peter — the  fixed  assurance, 
whether  at  home  or  at  school,  that  life  was  easier  if  one 
said  nothing — might  have  found  an  outlet  in  Stephen's  com- 
pany, but  here  again  there  was  no  cheerful  chronicle. 

Each  holiday  showed  Peter  less  of  Stephen  than  the  last 
had  done,  and  he  was  afraid  to  ask  himself  why  this  was. 
Perhaps  in  reality  he  did  not  know,  but  at  any  rate  he  was 
sure  that  the  change  was  in  Stephen.  He  cared  for 
Stephen  as  devotedly  as  ever,  and,  indeed,  in  that  perhaps 
he  needed  him  more  than  ever  and  saw  him  so  little,  his 
affection  was  even  stronger  than  it  had  been.  But  Stephen 
had  changed,  not,  Peter  knew,  in  any  affection  towards  him- 
self, but  in  his  own  habits  and  person.  Burstead — his  old 
enemy — had  taken  a  farm  near  his  own  farm,  in  order,  so 
they  said  at  The  Bending  Mule,  that  he  might  flaunt  Mrs. 
Burstead   (once  Stephen's  sweetheart)  in  Stephen's  face. 

They  also  said  that  Burstead  beat  his  wife  and  ill-used  her 
horribly,  and  that  she  would  give  all  her  soul  now  that  she 
was  Stephen  Brant's  wife,  but  that  she  was  a  weak,  silly 
young  woman,  poor  thing.  They  said  that  Stephen  knew  all 
this,  and  that  he  could  hear  her  crying  at  nights,  and  that  it 
was  sending  him  off  his  head — and  that  he  was  drinking. 
And  they  shook  their  heads,  down  at  The  Bending  Mule,  and 
foreboded  ill.  Moreover,  that  old  lady,  Mrs.  Brant,  had 
died  during  Peter's  first  year  at  Dawson's,  and  Stephen 
was  alone  now.  He  had  changed  in  his  appearance,  his 
beard  tangled  and  untidy,  his  clothes  unbrushed  and  his 
eyes  wild  and  bloodshot,  and  once  Peter  had  ventured  up  to 
Stephen's  farm  and  had  climbed  the  stairs  and  had  opened 


78  FORTITUDE 

the  door  and  liad  seen  Stephen  (although  it  was  early  even- 
ing) sitting  all  naked  on  his  bed,  very  drunk  and  shouting 
wildly — and  he  had  not  recognised  Peter.  But  the  boy 
knew  when  he  met  him  again,  sober  this  time,  by  the  sad 
look  in  his  eyes,  that  Stephen  must  go  his  way  alone  now, 
lead  him  where  it  would.  ...  A  boy  of  fifteen  could  not 
help. 

And  so  those  holidays  were  more  and  more  lonely,  as 
the  days  passed  and  Peter's  heart  was  very  heavy.  He 
did  not  go  often  to  The  Bending  Mule  now  because  Stephen 
was  not  there.  He  went  once  or  twice  to  Zachary  Tan's 
shop,  but  he  did  not  see  Mr.  Zanti  again  nor  any  one  who 
spoke  of  London.  He  had  not,  however,  forgotten  Mr. 
Zanti's  talk  of  looking-glasses.  As  he  grew  and  his  mind 
distinguished  more  clearly  between  fact  and  fancy,  he  saw 
that  it  was  foolish  to  suppose  that  one  saw  anything  in 
looking-glasses  but  the  immediate  view.  Tables  and  chairs, 
walls  and  windows,  dust  and  fire-places,  there  was  the  fur- 
niture of  a  looking-glass.  Nevertheless  during  his  first 
year  at  school  he  had,  on  occasions,  climbed  to  his  dormitory, 
seen  that  he  was  alone  and  then  gazed  into  his  glass  and 
thought  of  London  .  .  .  London  in  his  young  brain,  being 
a  place  of  romantic  fog,  pantomime,  oranges,  fat,  chivalrous 
old  gentlemen,  Queen  Victoria  and  Punch  and  Judy.  Noth- 
ing had  happened — of  course  nothing  had  happened — it  was 
only  very  cold  and  unpleasant  up  there  all  alone,  and,  at 
the  end  of  it,  a  silly  thing  to  do. 

And  then  one  night  something  did  happen.  He  woke 
suddenly  and  heard,  in  the  distance  beyond  the  deep  breath- 
ing of  twenty-four  sleepers,  a  clock  strike  three.  He 
turned  and  lay  on  his  back;  he  was  very  sleepy  and  he  did 
not  know  why  he  had  wakened.  The  long  high  room  was 
dark,  but  directly  opposite  him  beyond  the  end  of  his  bed, 
the  light  seemed  to  shine  full  on  to  the  face  of  his  looking- 
glass.  As  he  sat  up  in  bed  and  looked  at  it  it  seemed  to 
stand  out  like  a  sheet  of  silver. 

He  gripped  tlie  sides  of  the  bed  and  stared.  He  rubbed 
his  eyes.  He  could  see  no  reflection  in  the  glass  at  all 
but  only  this  shining  expanse,  and  then,  as  he  looked  at  it, 
that  too  seemed  to  pass  away,  and  in  its  place  at  first  con- 
fusedly, like  smoke  across  the  face  of  the  glass^  and  theo 


SCAW  HOUSE  79 

settling  into  shape  and  form,  there  appeared  the  interior 
of  a  room — a  small  low-roofed  dark  room.  There  was  a 
large  fire  burning,  and  in  front  of  it,  kneeling  on  the  floor, 
with  their  backs  to  Peter,  were  two  men,  and  they  were 
thrusting  papers  into  the  fire.  The  glass  seemed  to  stretch 
and  broaden  out  so  that  the  whole  of  the  room  was  visible, 
and  suddenly  Peter  saw  a  little  window  high  in  the  top  of 
the  wall,  and  behind  that  window  was  a  face  that  watched 
the  two  men. 

He  wanted  to  warn  them — he  suddenly  cried  out  aloud 
"  Look  out !  "  and  with  that  he  was  wide  awake  and  saw 
that  his  glass  could  be  only  dimly  discerned  in  the  grey  of 
the  advancing  morning — and  yet  he  had  heard  that  clock 
strike  three!  ...  So  much  for  confusing  dreams,  and  so 
vivid  was  it  that  in  the  morning  he  remembered  the  face  at 
the  window  and  knew  that  he  would  recognise  it  again  if 
he  saw  it. 


n 

But  out  of  the  three  years  there  stand  his  relations  with 
Cards  and  young  Galleon,  a  symbol  of  so  much  that  was 
to  come  to  him  later.     As  he  grew  in  position  in  the  school 
Cards    saw   him    continually.     Cards    undoubtedly    admired 
his  stocky,  determined  strength,  his  grey  eyes,  his  brusque 
speech,  his  ability  at  games.     He  did  not  pretend  also  that 
he  was  not  flattered  by  Peter's  attentions.     Curiously,  for 
so  young  a  boy,  he  had  a  satirical  irony  that  showed  him 
the  world  very  much  in  the  light  that  he  was  always  after- 
wards to  see  it.     To  Cards  the  world  was  a  show,  a  Vanity 
I  Fair — a  place  where  manner,  savoir-faire,  dignity,  humour 
I  and  ease,  mattered  everything;  he  saw  also  that  there  was 
1  nothing  by  which  people  are  so  easily  deceived. 
I        Peter   had    none   of   these   things;    he   would    always   be 
rough,  he  would  never  be  elegant,  and  afterwards,  in  life, 
Cards    did   not  suppose   that  he  would   see  very  much   of 
Peter,  their  lives  would  be  along  diff'erent  paths;  but  now, 
more  genuinely  perhaps  than  ever  again,  Cards  was  to  ad- 
mire that  honest  bedrock  of  feeling,  of  sentiment,  of  crit- 
icism, of  love  and  anger,  that  gave  Peter  his  immense  value. 
"  There  is  a  fellow  here,"  wrote  Cards  to  his  mother. 


80  FORTITUDE 

"  whom  I  like  very  much.  He's  got  a  most  awful  lot  of 
stuff  in  him  although  he  doesn't  say  much  and  he  looks 
like  nothing  on  earth  sometimes.  He's  very  good  at  foot- 
ball, although  he's  only  been  here  a  year.  His  name  is 
Westcott — Peter  Westcott  I  expect  I'll  bring  him  back  one 
hohday." 

But,  of  course,  he  never  did.  Peter,  when  it  came  to 
actuality,  wouldn't  look  right  at  home.  It  was  during 
Peter's  second  year  that  these  things  were  happening,  and, 
all  this  time,  Peter  was  climbing  slowly  to  a  very  real 
popularity.  Cards  was  leaving  at  the  end  of  this  second 
year — had  he  stayed  until  the  end  of  the  third  his  super- 
ficialities would  have  been  most  severely  tested. 

To  him  Peter  gave  all  that  whole-hearted  love  and  devo- 
tion that  only  Stephen  had  known  before.  He  gave  it  with 
a  very  considerable  sense  of  humour  and  with  no  sentiment 
at  aU.  He  saw  Cards  quite  clearly,  he  watched  his  poses 
and  his  elaborate  pretences,  and  he  laughed  at  him  some- 
times and  called  him  names. 

Cards'  pride  was,  on  several  occasions,  distinctly  hurt  by 
this  laughter,  but  his  certain  conviction  of  his  own  superior- 
ity always  comforted  him.  Nor  was  Peter  ever  sentimen- 
tal in  his  attitude.  He  never  told  Cards  that  he  cared  for 
him,  and  he  even  hung  back  a  little  when  Cards  was  in  a 
demonstrative  mood  and  wanted  to  be  told  that  he  was 
"  wonderful."  Cards  sometimes  wondered  whether  Peter 
cared  for  him  at  all  and  whether  he  wasn't  really  fonder 
of  that  "  stupid  ass  Galleon  "  who  never  had  a  word  to 
say  for  himself.  Peter's  grey  eyes  would  have  told  Cards 
a  great  deal  if  he  had  cared  to  examine  them,  but  he  did 
not  know  anything  about  eyes.  Peter  noticed,  a  little 
against  his  will,  that  as  he  advanced  up  the  school  so  Cards 
cared  increasingly  about  him.  He  grasped  this  discovery 
philosophically;  after  all,  there  were  many  fellows  whoj 
took  their  colour  from  the  world's  opinion,  and  it  was  nat-l 
ural  enough  that  they  should.  He  himself  regarded  his 
growing  popularity  as  a  thing  of  no  importance  whatever; 
it  did  not  touch  him  anywhere  at  all  because  he  despised 
and  hated  the  place.  "  When  the  time  docs  come,"  he 
•aid  once  to  Cards,  "  and  one  is  allowed  to  do  tilings,  I'll  \ 
ftop  a  lot  of  this  filtL"  * 


SCAW  HOUSE  81 

"You'll  have  your  work  cut  out,"  Cards  told  him. 
"What  does  it  all  matter  to  us?  Let  'em  wallow — and 
they'll  only  hate  you." 

Cards  added  this  because  he  knew  that  Peter  had  a  cu- 
rious passion  for  being  liked.  Cards  wanted  to  be  admired, 
but  to  be  liked!  .  .  .  what  was  the  gain?  But  that  second 
year  was,  in  spite  of  it  all,  the  best  time  that  Peter  had 
ever  had.  There  was  warmth  of  a  kind  in  their  apprecia- 
tion of  him.  He  was  only  fifteen  and  small  for  his  age, 
but  his  uncompromising  attitude  about  things,  his  silence, 
his  football,  gave  him  a  surprising  importance — but  even 
now  it  was  respect  rather  than  popularity.  He  was  grow- 
ing more  like  a  bull-dog  than  ever,  his  hair  was  stiff  and 
short,  rather  shaggy  eyebrows,  a  square  jaw,  his  short  legs 
rather  far  apart,  a  broad  back  and  thick  strong  arms. 

Now  that  Stephen  had  slipped  so  sadly  into  the  back- 
ground he  built  up  his  life  about  Cards.  He  put  everything 
into  that  room — not  the  old  room  that  had  held  Stephen, 
but  a  new  shining  place  that  gained  some  added  brilliance 
from  the  fact  that  its  guest  realised  so  little  the  honour  that 
was  done  him.  He  would  lie  awake  at  night  and  think 
about  Cards,  of  the  things  that  he  would  do  for  him,  of  the 
way  that  he  would  serve  him,  of  the  guardian  that  he 
would  be. 

And  then,  as  that  summer  term,  at  the  end  of  the  second 
year,  wore  on  the  pain  of  Cards'  departure  grew  daily 
more  terrible.  He  didn't  know,  as  the  days  advanced,  how 
he  would  be  able  to  bear  that  place  without  Cards.  There 
would  be  no  life,  no  interest,  and  all  the  disorganisation, 
the  immorality,  the  cruelty  would  oppress  him  as  they  had 
never  oppressed  him  before.  Besides  next  year  he  would 
be  a  person  of  some  importance — he  would  probably  be 
Captain  of  the  Football  and  a  Monitor  .  .  .  everything 
would  be  terribly  hard.  Of  course  there  was  old  Bobby 
Galleon,  who  was  a  very  good  chap  and  really  fond  of 
Peter,  but  there  was  no  excitement  about  that  relationship. 
Bobby  was  quite  ready  to  play  servant  to  Peter's  master, 
and  Peter  could  never  respect  any  one  very  much  who  did 
that.  Beside  Cards,  so  brilliant,  so  handsome,  with  such 
an  "  air,"  old  Bobby  really  didn't  come  off  very  well. 

Bobby  also  at  times  was  inclined  to  be  a  little  sentimen- 


est  FORTITUDE 

tal.  He  nsed  to  ask  Peter  whether  he  liked  him — whether 
he  would  miss  him  if  he  died — and  he  used  to  tell  Peter 
that  he  would  very  gladly  die  for  him.  There  were  things 
that  one  didn't — ^if  one  had  self-respect — say. 

That  year  the  simimer  was  of  a  blazing  heat.  Every 
morning  saw  a  sky  of  steely  blue,  the  corn  stood  like  a 
golden  band  about  the  hills,  and  little  clouds  like  the  soft- 
est feathers  were  blown  by  the  Gods  about  the  world.  A 
mist  clung  about  the  distant  hills  and  clothed  them  in  pur- 
ple grey.  As  the  term  grew  to  its  close  Peter  felt  that 
the  world  was  a  prison  of  coloured  steel,  and  that  Dawson's 
was  a  true  Hell  ...  he  would  escape  from  it  with  Cards. 
And  then  when  he  saw  that  such  an  escape  would  be  rxm- 
ning  away  and  a  confession  of  defeat — he  turned  back  and 
held  his  will  in  command. 

Cards  looked  upon  his  approaching  departure  as  a  great 
deliverance.  He  was  to  be  a  man  immediately;  not  for 
him  that  absurdly  dilatory  condition  of  pimples  and  hobble- 
dehoy boots  that  mark  a  transition  period.  Dawson's  had 
been  the  most  insignificant  sojourn  in  the  tent  of  the  enemy, 
and  the  world,  it  was  implied,  had  lamented  his  enforced 
absence.  But,  as  the  end  of  term  flung  its  shadows  in 
front  of  it  in  the  form  of  examinations,  and  that  especial 
quality  of  excited  expectancy  hovering  about  the  corridors. 
Cards  felt,  for  the  first  time  in  his  existence,  a  genuine  emo- 
tion. He  minded,  curiously,  leaving  Peter.  He  felt,  al- 
though in  this  he  wrongly  anticipated  the  gods,  that  he 
would  never  see  him  again,  and  he  calculated  perhaps  at  the 
little  piece  of  real  affection  and  friendship  that  stood  out 
from  the  Continental  Tour  that  he  wished  Life  to  be,  like 
a  palm  tree  on  the  limitless  desert.  And  yet  it  was  char- 
acteristic of  them  both  that  on  the  last  day  when,  seated 
ander  a  hedge  at  the  top  of  the  playing  fields,  the  school 
buildings  a  grey  mist  below  them  and  the  air  tensely  rigid 
with  heat,  they  said  good-bye  to  one  another,  it  was  Cards 
who  found  all  the  words. 

Peter  had  nothing  to  say  at  all;  he  only  clutched  at 
tufts  of  grass,  lugged  them  from  the  earth  and  flung  them 
before  him.     But  Cards,  as  usual,  rose  to  tlie  occasion. 

"  You  know,  Peter,  it's  been  most  splendid  knowing  you 
here.     I  don't  think  I'd  ever  have  got  through   Dawson's 


SCAW  HOUSE  8^ 

if  it  hadn't  been  for  you.  It's  a  hell  of  a  place  and  I  sup- 
pose if  the  mater  hadn't  been  abroad  so  much  I  should  never 
have  stayed  on.  But  it's  no  use  making  a  fuss.  Besides, 
it's  only  for  a  little  while — one  will  have  forgotten  all  abou*; 
it  in  a  year's  time." 

Peter  smiled.     "You  will,  I  shan't." 

"  Why,  of  course  you  will.  And  you  must  come  and  stay 
with  us  often.  My  mother's  most  awfully  anxious  to  know 
you.  Won't  it  be  splendid  going  out  to  join  her  in  Italy? 
It'll  be  a  bit  hot  this  time  of  year  I  expect." 

Peter  seemed  to  struggle  with  his  words.  "  I  say- 
Cards — you   won't — altogether — forget   me?  " 

"  Forget  you !  Wby,  good  Lord,  I'll  be  always  writing. 
I'U  have  such  lots  to  tell  you.  I've  never  liked  any  one  in 
all  my  life  (this  said  with  a  great  sense  of  age)  as  I've 
liked  you !  " 

He  stood  up  and  fumbled  in  his  coat.  Peter  always  re- 
membered him,  his  dark  slim  body  against  the  sky,  his  hair 
tumbled  about  his  forehead,  the  grace  and  ease  with  which 
his  body  was  balanced,  the  trick  that  he  had  of  swaying  a 
little  from  the  hips.     He  felt  in  his  pocket. 

"  I  say — I've  got  something  for  you.  I  bought  it  down 
in  the  town  the  other  day  and  I  made  them  put  your  name 
on  it."  He  produced  it,  wrapped  in  tissue  paper,  out  of 
his  pocket,  and  Peter  took  it  without  a  word.  It  was  a 
silver  match-box  with  "  Peter  Westcott  from  his  friend 
Cardillac,"  and  the  month  and  the  year  printed  on  it. 

"  Thanks  most  awfully,"  Peter  said  gruffly.  "  Jolly  de- 
cent of  you.     Good-bye  old  man." 

They  shook  hands  and  avoided  each  other's  eyes,  and 
Cardillac  had  a  sudden  desire  to  fling  the  Grand  Tour  and 
the  rest  of  it  to  the  dogs  and  to  come  back  for  another  year 
to  Dawson's. 

"  Well,  I  must  get  back,  got  to  be  in  library  at  four,"  he 
said. 

"  I'm  going  to  stop  here  a  bit,"  said  Peter. 

He  watched  Cards  walk  slowly  down  the  hill  and  then 
he  flung  himself  on  his  face  and  pursued  with  a  vacant  eye 
the  efforts  of  an  ant  to  climb  a  swaying  blade  of  grass 
...  he  was  there  for  a  long  time. 


84  FORTITUDE 

ni 

And  so  he  entered  into  his  third  year  at  Dawson's  with 
a  dogged  determination  to  get  through  with  it  as  well  as 
possible  and  not  to  miss  Cards  more  than  he  could  help. 
He  did,  as  an  actual  fact,  miss  Cards  terribly.  There  were 
so  many  places,  so  many  things  that  were  connected  with 
him,  but  he  found,  as  a  kind  of  reward,  that  Bobby  Galleon 
was  more  of  a  friend  than  before.  Now  that  Cards  had 
departed  Galleon  came  a  little  out  of  his  shell.  He  antici- 
pated, obviously  with  very  considerable  enjoyment,  that  year 
when  he  would  have  Peter  all  It  himself.  Bobby  Galleon's 
virtue  was,  at  any  rate,  that  one  was  not  conscious  of  him, 
and  during  the  time  of  Peter's  popularity  he  was  useful 
without  being  in  the  very  least  evident.  When  that  year 
was  over  and  he  had  seen  the  last  shining  twinkle  of  Cards* 
charms  and  fascinations  he  looked  at  Peter  a  little  wist- 
fully, "  Peter,  old  man,  next  year  will  be  topping.  .  .  ." 
and  Peter,  the  pleasant  warmth  of  popularity  about  him, 
felt  that  there  was  a  great  deal  to  be  said  for  Galleon 
after  all. 

But  with  the  first  week  of  that  third  year  trouble  began. 
Things  lifted  between  the  terms,  into  so  different  an  air;  at 
the  end  of  the  summer  with  Peter's  authority  in  prospect  and 
his  splendid  popularity  (confined  by  no  jailer-like  insistence 
on  rules)  around  him  that  immediate  year  seemed  simple 
enough.  But  in  the  holidays  that  preceded  the  autumn  term 
something  had  occurred;  Peter  returned  in  the  mists  and 
damp  of  September  with  every  eye  upon  him.  Although 
only  fifteen  and  a  half  he  was  a  Monitor  and  Captain  of 
the  Football  .  .  .  far  too  young  for  both  these  posts,  with 
fellows  of  a  great  size  and  a  greater  age  in  the  school,  but 
Barbour  (his  nose  providing,  daily,  a  more  lively  guide  to 
his  festal  evenings)  was  seized  by  Peter's  silence  and  im- 
perturbability in  the  midst  of  danger,  "  That  kid's  got  guts  " 
(this  a  vinous  confidence  amongst  friends)  "  and  will  pull 
the  place  up — gettin'  a  bit  slack,  yer  know — Young?  Lord 
bless  yer,  no — wonderful  for  his  age  and  Captain  of  the 
Football — that's  always  popular." 

So  upon  Peter  the  burden  of  "  pulling  things  up  "  de- 


SCAW  HOUSE  66 

scended.  How  far  Cards  might  have  helped  him  here  it 
is  difficult  to  say.  Cards  had,  in  his  apparently  casual 
contempt  of  that  school  world,  a  remarkably  competent  sense 
of  the  direction  in  which  straws  were  blowing.  That  most 
certainly  Peter  had  not,  being  inclined,  at  this  stage  of 
things,  to  go  straight  for  the  thing  that  he  saw  and  to  leave 
the  outskirts  of  the  subject  to  look  after  themselves.  And 
here  Bobby  Galleon  was  of  no  use  to  him,  being  as  blun- 
dering and  near-sighted  and  simple  as  a  boy  could  very 
well  be.  Moreover  his  implicit  trust  in  the  perfection  of 
that  hero,  Peter,  did  not  help  clarity  of  vision.  He  was 
never  aware  of  the  causes  of  things  and  only  dimly  noticed 
effects,  but  he  was  unflinchingly  faithful. 

"  The   primrose   path "   was,   of   course,   open   to   Peter. 
He  was  popular  enough,  at  the  beginning  of  that  Autumn 
term,  to  do  anything,  and,  had  he   followed  the  "  closed- 
eyes  "  policy   of  his  predecessor,  smiling  pleasantly  upon 
all  crime  and  even  gently  with  his  own  authority  "  lending 
a  hand,"  all  would  have  been  well.     There  were  boys  with 
strangely  simple  names,  simple  for  such  criminals — Barton, 
Jerrard,    Watson,    West,    Underbill — ^who    were    old-estab- 
lished hands  at  their  own  especial  games,  and  they  saw  no 
reason  at  all  for  disturbance.     "  Young  Westcott  had  better 
not   come   meddling   here,"   they   muttered   darkly,   having 
discerned   already   a  tendency  on   his  part  to   show  disap- 
proval.    Nothing  happened  during  the  first  term — no  con- 
crete incident — but  Peter  had  stepped,  by  the  end  of  it, 
from  an  exultant  popularity  to  an  actual  distrust  and  sus- 
picion.    The  football  season  had  not  been  very  successful 
and  Peter  had  not  the  graces  and  charm  of  a  leader.     He 
distrusted  the  revelation  of  enthusiasm  because  he  was  him- 
self so  enthusiastic  and  his  silence  was  mistaken   for  cold- 
ness.    He  hated  the  criminals  with  the  simple  names  and 
showed  them  that  he  hated  them  and  they  in  their  turn, 
skilfully   and  with   some  very  genuine  humour,  persuaded 
the  school  that  he  cut  a  very  poor  figure. 

At  the  absurd  concert  that  closed  the  Autumn  term  (Mr, 
Barbour,  red-nosed  and  bulging  shirt-front,  hilariously  in 
the  chair)  Peter  knew  that  he  had  lost  his  throne.  He  had 
Bobby — there  was  no  one  else — and  in  a  sudden  bitterness 
and  scorn  at  the  fickle  colour  of  that  esteem  that  he  had 


86  FORTITUDE 

valued  so  highly  he  almost  wished  that  he  were  altogether 
alone.  .  .  .  Bobby  only  accentuated  things. 

Nothing  to  go  home  to — nothing  to  come  back  to.  The 
Christmas  hohdays  over  he  returned  to  the  Easter  term  with 
an  eager  determination  to  improve  matters. 

It  was  geniality  that  he  lacked:  he  knew  that  that  was 

the  matter  with  him,  and  he  felt  a  kind  of  despair  about  it 

because  he  seemed  to  return  at  the  end  of  every  holiday 

y^Tom   Cornwall   with  that   old  conviction   in  his   head   that 

/the  easiest  way  to  get  through  the  world  was  to  stand  with 

Cyour  back  to  the  wall  and  say  nothing  .  .  .  and  if  these 

lellows,  who  thought  him  so  pleasant  last  year,  thought  him 

pleasant  no  longer,  well,  then  he  must  put  up  with  it.     He 

had  not  changed — there  he  was,  as  ever. 

But  the  Easter  term  was  a  chronicle  of  mistakes.  He 
could  not  be  genial  to  people  who  defied  and  mocked  him; 
he  found,  dangerously,  that  they  could  all  be  afraid  of  him. 
When  his  face  was  white  and  his  voice  very  quiet  and  his 
whole  body  tense  like  a  bow,  then  they  feared  him — the 
biggest  and  strongest  of  those  criminals  obeyed.  He  was 
sixteen  now  and  he  could  when  he  liked  rule  them  all,  and 
gradually,  as  the  term  advanced,  he  used  his  strength  more 
and  more  and  was  more  and  more  alone.  Days  would  come 
when  he  would  hate  his  loneliness  and  would  rush  out  of  it 
with  friendly  advances  and  always  he  would  be  beaten  back 
into  his  reserve  again.  Had  only  Cards  been  there!  .  .  . 
But  what  side  would  Cards  have  taken  .^  Perhaps  Peter 
was  fortunate  in  that  the  test  was  not  demanded.  Poor 
Bobby  simply  did  not  understand  it  at  all.  Peter !  the  most 
splendid  fellow  in  the  world!  What  were  they  all  up  to? 
But  that  point  of  view  did  not  help  matters.  No  other 
monitor  spoke  to  Peter  now  if  he  could  help  it,  and  even 
the  masters,  judging  that  where  there  was  smoke  there  must 
be  fire,  passed  him  coldly.  That  Easter  term,  in  the  late 
winds  and  rains  of  March,  closed  hideously.  The  Easter 
holidays,  although  peshaps  he  did  not  realise  it,  were  a  de- 
liberate backing  for  the  ordeal  that  was,  he  knew,  to  come. 

He  faced  it  on  his  return  almost  humorously,  prepared, 
with  a  self-consciousness  that  was  unusual  in  him,  for  all 
the  worst  things,  and  it  is  true  enough  that  they  were  a« 
bad  as  they  could  be.     Bobby  Galleon  shared  in  it  all,  of 


SCAW  HOUSE  87 

course,  but  he  had  never  been  a  popular  person  and  he 
did  not  miss  anything  so  long  as  there  was  Peter.  Once  he 
said,  as  Cards  had  said  before: 

"  Leave  'em  alone,  Peter.  After  all,  we  can't  do  any- 
thing. They're  too  many  for  us,  and,  most  important 
thing  of  all,  they  aren't  worth  it." 

"  Not  much,"  said  Peter,  "  things  have  got  to  be  dif- 
ferent." 

Things  were  not  different.  They  were  too  many  for  him, 
but  he  struggled  on.  The  more  open  bullying  he  stopped, 
and  there  were  other  things  that  he  drove  into  dark  corners. 
But  they  remained  there — in  those  corners.  There  were  so 
many  dark  places  at  Dawson's,  and  it  began  to  get  on  his 
brain  so  that  he  heard  whispers  and  suspicions  and  marked 
the  trail  of  the  beast  at  every  minute  of  the  day.  He  could 
find  nothing  now  in  the  open — ^they  were  too  clever  for  him. 
The  Captain  of  the  Citadel — EUershaw — was  as  he  knew 
the  worst  fellow  in  the  school,  but  there  was  nothing  to  be 
done,  nothing  unless  something  were  caught  in  the  open. 
As  the  term  advanced  the  whispers  grew  and  he  felt  that 
there  were  plots  in  the  air.  He  was  obeyed,  EUershaw  and 
some  of  the  others  were  politer  than  they  had  ever  been, 
and  for  many  weeks  now  there  had  been  no  disturbance — 
then  suddenly  the  storm  broke. 

One  hot  afternoon  he  was  sitting  in  his  study  alone,  try- 
ing to  read.  Things  seemed  to  him  that  day  at  their  very 
worst,  there  was  no  place  to  which  he  might  turn.  People 
were  playing  cricket  beyond  his  window.  Some  fly  buzzed 
on  his  window  pane,  the  sunlight  was  golden  about  his  room 
and  little  ladders  of  dust  twisted  and  curved  against  the 
glare — ^the  house  was  very  still.  Then  suddenly,  from  a 
neighbouring  study,  there  were  sounds.  At  first  they  did 
not  penetrate  his  day  dream,  then  they  caught  his  ear  and 
he  put  his  book  down  and  listened.  The  sounds  were  muf- 
fled ;  there  was  laughter  and  then  some  one  cried  out. 

He  knew  that  it  was  Jerrard's  study  and  he  hated  Jer- 
rard  more  than  any  one  in  the  school.  The  fellow  was  a 
huge  stupid  oaf,  low  down  in  the  middle  fourth,  but  the 
best  bowler  that  the  school  had;  yes,  he  hated  him.  He 
opened  his  study  door  and  listened.  The  passage  was  de- 
Serted;  and^  for  a  moment^  there  was  no  sound  save  som<$ 


88  FORTITUDE 

one  shouting  down  in  the  cricket  field  and  the  buzzing  of 
the  fly  on  the  pane.  Then  he  heard  voices  from  behind 
Jerrard's  door. 

"  No,  I  say — Jerrard — don't  give  me  any  more — please 
.  .  .  please  don't." 

"  There  I  say — hold  his  mouth  open ;  that's  right,  pour 
it  down.     We'll  have  him  singing  in  a  moment." 

"  Oh  I  say — "  there  were  sounds  of  a  struggle  and  then 
silence  again.  At  last  there  began  the  most  horrible  laugh- 
ter that  Peter  had  ever  known;  weak,  silly,  giggling,  and 
little  excited  cries. 

Then  Jerrard's  voice:  "There,  that  will  do;  he's  merry 
enough  now." 

Peter  waited  for  no  more,  but  strode  across  the  passage 
and  flung  open  the  door.  Some  chairs  were  overturned; 
Jerrard  and  a  friend,  hearing  the  door  open,  had  turned 
round.  Leaning  against  the  table,  very  flushed,  his  eyes 
shining,  his  hair  covered  with  dust,  waving  his  arms  and 
singing  in  a  quivering  voice,  was  a  small  boy,  very  drunk. 
A  glass  and  a  whisky  bottle  were  on  the  table. 

"  You  damned  hound !  "  Peter  was  trembling  from  head 
to  foot.     "  You  shall  get  kicked  out  for  this." 

Peter  closed  the  door  quietly  behind  him,  and  went  back 
to  his  study.  Here  at  last  was  the  moment  for  which  he 
had  been  waiting.  Jerrard  should  be  expelled  if  he,  Peter, 
died  in  the  attempt.  Jerrard  was  the  school's  best  bowler; 
he  was  immensely  popular  ...  it  would,  indeed,  be  a  mat- 
ter of  life  and  death.  On  that  same  evening  he  called  a 
meeting  of  the  Monitors;  they  were  bound  to  meet  if  one 
of  their  number  had  anything  c."  suflicicnt  importance  to 
declare,  but  they  came  reluctantly  and  showed  Peter  that 
they  resented  his  action.  Wlien  they  heard  what  Peter 
had  to  say  their  attitude  was  even  more  mutinous.  Jerrard, 
the  school's  best  bowler,  was  their  one  thought.  The  end 
of  the  term  was  at  hand,  and  the  great  match  of  the  year 
against  Radford,  a  neighbouring  school,  approached. 
Without  Jerrard  Dawson's  would  be  hopelessly  defeated. 
If  Barbour  heard  of  the  incident  Jerrard  would  be  expelled; 
Barbour  might  be  reluctant  to  act,  but  act  he  must.  They 
were  not,  by  an  absurd  and  ancient  rule,  allowed  to  punish 
any  grave  offence  without  reporting  it  to  the  head-master. 


SCAW  HOUSE  89 

If,  therefore,  they  took  any  action  at  all,  it  must  be  re- 
ported, Jerrard  would  be  expelled,  a  boon  companion  and 
the  great  cricket  match  of  tiie  year,  would  be  lost.  And 
all  this  through  that  interfering  prig  of  a  Westcott!  Any 
ordinary  fellow  would  have  shut  his  eyes  to  the  whole  af- 
fair. After  all  what  is  there  to  make  a  fuss  about  in  having 
a  rag  with  a  kid?  What  are  kids  for?  Thus  the  conclave 
sourly  regarding  Peter  who  watched  them  in  turn,  and  sat 
sternly,  ominously  militant.  They  approached  him  with 
courtesy;  Ellershaw  showed  him  what  this  might  mean  to 
the  school  were  it  persisted  in.  After  all,  Jerrard  was,  in 
all  probability,  sorry  enough  ...  it  was  a  rotten  thing  to 
do — he  should  apologise  to  them.  No,  Peter  would  have 
none  of  it,  they  must  act;  it  must  be  reported  to  the  Head. 
He  would,  if  necessary,  report  it  himself. 

Then  they  turned  and  cursed  him,  asking  him  whom  he 
thought  that  he  was,  warned  him  about  the  way  that  the 
school  would  take  his  interference  when  the  school  knew, 
advised  him  for  his  own  good  to  drop  the  matter;  Peter 
was  unmoved. 

Barbour  was  informed;  Jerrard  was  expelled — ^the  school 
'was  beaten  in  the  cricket  match  by  an  innings. 

Then  the  storm  broke.  Peter  moved,  with  Bobby  Gal- 
leon, through  a  cloud  of  enemies.  It  was  a  hostility  that 
cut  like  a  knife,  silent,  motionless,  but  so  bitter  that  every 
boy  from  Ellershaw  to  the  tiniest  infant  at  the  bottom 
of  the  first  took  it  as  the  motif  of  his  day.  That  beast 
Westcott  was  the  song  that  rang  through  the  last  fort- 
night. 

Bobby  Galleon  was  cowed  by  it;  he  did  not  mind  his  own 
ostracism,  and  he  was  proud  that  he  could  give  practical 
effect  to  his  devotion  for  his  friend,  but  deep  down  in  his 
loyalty,  there  was  an  unconfessed  suspicion  as  to  whether 
Peter,  after  all,  hadn't  been  a  little  unwise  and  interfering 
— ^what  was  the  good  of  making  all  this  trouble?  He  even 
wondered  whether  Peter  didn't  rather  enjoy  it? 

And  Peter,  for  the  first  time  in  his  school  life,  was 
happy.  There  was  something  after  all  in  being  up  against 
all  these  people.  He  was  a  general  fighting  against  tre- 
mendous odds.  He  would  show  them  next  year  that  they 
must  obey. 


90  FORTITUDE 

On  the  last  afternoon  of  the  term  he  sat  alone  in  his 
study.  Bobby  was  with  the  matron,  packing.  He  was  con- 
scious, as  he  sat  there,  of  the  sound  of  many  feet  shuffling. 
There  were  many  whispers  beyond  his  door,  and  yet  a  great 
silence. 

He  waited  for  a  little,  and  then  he  opened  his  door  and 
looked  out.  As  he  did  so  the  bell  for  roll-call  rang  through 
the  building,  and  he  knew  that  it  was  his  roll. 

Afternoon  roll-call  was  always  taken  in  the  gymnasium, 
a  large  empty  room  beyond  the  study  passage,  and  it  was 
the  custom  for  boys  to  come  up  as  their  name  was  about 
to  be  called  and  thus  to  pass  on. 

But  to-day  he  saw  that  the  whole  of  the  school  was 
gathered  there,  along  the  dusky  passage  and  packed,  in  a 
silent  motionless  throng,  into  the  gymnasium. 

He  knew  that  they  were  all  there  with  a  purpose,  and 
suddenly  as  he  realised  the  insult  that  they  intended,  that 
spirit  of  exultation  came  upon  him  again.  All !  it  was 
•worth  while,  this  battle! 

They  made  way  in  silence  as  he  passed  quietly  to  the 
other  end  of  the  gymnasium  and  stood,  a  little  above  them, 
on  the  steps  that  led  to  the  gallery.  He  started  the  roll- 
call  with  the  head  of  tlie  school  and  the  sixth  form  .  .  . 
there  was  no  answer  to  any  name;  only  perfect  silence  and 
every  eye  fixed  upon  him.  P'or  a  wild  moment  he  wished 
to  burst  out  upon  them,  to  crash  their  heads  together,  to 
hurt — then  his  self-control  returned.  Very  quietly  and 
clearly  he  read  through  the  school  list,  a  faint  smile  on  his 
lips.  Bobby  Galleon  was  the  only  boy,  out  of  three  hun- 
dred, who  answered. 

When  he  had  finished  he  called  out  as  was  the  custom, 
"  Roll  is  over,"  then  for  a  brief  instant,  with  the  list  in 
his  hand,  smiling,  he  faced  tht-ni  all.  Every  eye  was  upon 
him — Ellershaw,  We^t,  Barton  smiling  a  little,  some  faces 
nervous,  some  excited,  all  bitterly,  intensely  hostile  .  .  . 
and  he  must  return  next  year! 

He  came  down  from  the  steps  and  walked  very  slowly  to 
the  door,  and  then  as  his  fingers  touched  the  handle  there 
was  a  sound — a  whisper,  very  soft  and  then  louder;  it  grew 
about  his  ear  like  a  shot  .  .  .  the  whole  school,  motionless 
as  before,  was  hissing  him. 


SCAW  HOUSE  91 

There  was  no  word  spoken^  and  he  closed  the  door  be- 
hind him. 

IV 

That  same  night  he  walked,  before  chapel,  with  Bobby 
to  the  top  of  the  playing  fields.  The  night  was  dark  and 
heavy,  with  no  moon  nor  stars — but  there  was  a  cool  wind 
that  touched  his  cheek. 

"  Well,  I've  been  a  pretty  good  failure,  Bobby.  You've 
stuck  to  me  like  a  brick.  I  shall  never  forget  it.  .  .  . 
But  you  know  never  in  all  my  life  have  I  been  as  happy  as 
I  was  this  afternoon.  The  devils !  I'll  have  'em  under 
next  year." 

"  That's  not  the  way — "  Bobby  tried  timorously  to  ex- 
plain. 

"  Oh,  yes,  it  is.  .  .  .  Anyhow  it's  my  way.  I  wonder 
what  there  is  about  me  that  makes  people  hate  me  so." 

"  People  don't." 

"  Yes,  they  do.  At  home,  here — it's  all  the  same.  I'm 
always  having  to  fight  about  something,  always  coming  up 
against  things." 

y  "  I   suppose   it's  your  destiny,"  said  Bobby.     "  You  ai- 
rways say  it's  to  teach  you  pluck." 

"  That's  what  an  old  chap  I  knew  in  Cornwall  said. 
But  why  can't  I  be  let  alone?  How  I  loved  that  bit  last 
year  when  the  fellows  liked  me — only  ^e  decent  things 
never  last." 

^tTl  be  all  right  later,"  Bobby  answered,  thinking  that 
he  had  never  seen  anything  finer  than  the  way  Peter  had 
taken  that  afternoon.  "  In  a  way,"  he  went  on,  "  you  fel- 
lows are  lucky  to  get  a  chance  of  standing  up  against  that 
sort  of  thing;  it's  damned  good  practice.  Nobody  ever 
thinks  I'm  worth  while." 

"  Well,"  said  Peter,  throwing  a  clod  of  dark,  scented 
earth  into  the  air  and  losing  sight  of  it  in  the  black  wall 
about  him — "  Here's  to  next  year's  battle !  " 


CHAPTER  VII 
PRIDE  OF  LIFE 


PETER  never  saw  Dawson's  again.  When  the  summer 
holidays  had  run  some  three  weeks  a  letter  arrived 
stating,  quite  simply  and  tersely  that,  owing  to  the  non- 
payment by  evading  parents  of  bills  long  overdue  and  to 
many  other  depressing  and  unavoidable  circumstances  Mr. 
Barbour  and  that  House  of  Cards,  his  school,  had  fallen 
to  pieces.     There  at  any  rate  was  an  end  to  that  disastrous 

(accumulation  of  brick  and  mortar,  and  the  harm  that,  living,  \ 
it  had  wrought  upon  the  souls  and  bodies  of  its  victims  its  > 
dying  could  not  excuse.     No  tears  were  shed  for  Dawson's. 

Peter,  at  the  news,  knew  that  now  his  battle  never  could 
be  won.  That  battle  at  any  rate  must  be  left  behind  him 
with  his  defeat  written  large  upon  the  plain  of  it,  and  this 
made  in  some  unrealised  way  the  penalty  of  the  future 
months  harder  to  bear.  He  had,  behind  him,  defeat.  Look 
at  it  as  he  might,  he  had  been  a  failure  at  Dawson's — he 
had  not  done  the  things  that  he  had  been  put  there  to  do 
— and  yet  through  the  disaster  he  knew  that  in  so  far  as  he 
had  refused  to  bend  to  the  storm  so  far  there  had  been 
victory;  of  that  at  any  rate  he  was  sure. 

So  he  turned  resolutely  from  the  past  and  faced  the  fu- 
ture. It  was  as  though  suddenly  Dawson's  had  never  ex- 
isted— a  dream,  a  fantasy,  a  delirium — something  that  had 
left  no  external  things  behind  it  and  had  only  in  the  effect 
that  it  had  worked  upon  himself  spiritually  made  its  mark. 
He  faced  his   House.  .  .  . 

Scaw  House  had  seemed  to  him,  during  these  last  three 
years,  merely  an  interlude  at  Dawson's.  There  had  been 
hurried  holidays  that  had  been  spent  in  recovering  from 
and  preparing  for  the  term  and  the  House  had  scarcely,  and 
only  very  quietly,  raised  its  head  to  disturb  him.  He  had 
not  been  disturbed — he  had  had  other  things  to  think  about 
—and  now  he  was  very  greatly  distiirbcd  indeed;  that  was 
the  first  difference  that  he  consciously  realised.     The  dis- 

9i 


SCAW  HOUSE  98 

turbance  lay,  of  course,  partly  in  the  presence  of  his  father 
and  in  the  sense  that  he  had  had  growing  upon  him,  during 
the  last  two  years,  that  their  relationship,  the  one  to  the 
other,  would,  suddenly,  one  fine  day,  spring  into  acute  emo- 
tion. They  were  approaching  one  another  gradually  as  in 
a  room  whose  walls  were  slowly  closing.  "  Face  to  face — 
and  then  body  to  body — at  last,  soul  to  soul !  " 

He  did  not,  he  thought,  actively  hate  his  father;  his 
father  did  not  actively  hate  him,  but  hate  might  spring  up 
at  any  moment  between  them,  and  Peter,  although  he  was 
only  sixteen,  was  no  longer  a  child.  But  the  feeling  of 
apprehension  that  Scaw  House  gave  him  was  caused  by 
wider  influences  than  his  father.  Three  years  at  Dawson's 
had  given  Peter  an  acute  sense  of  expecting  things,  it  might 
be  defined  as  "  the  glance  over  the  shoulder  to  see  who  fol- 
lowed " — some  one  was  always  following  at  Scaw  House. 
He  saw  in  this  how  closely  life  was  bound  together,  be- 
cause every  little  moment  at  Dawson's  contributed  to  his 
present  active  fear.  Dawson's  explained  Scaw  House  to 
Peter.  And  yet  this  was  all  morbidity  and  Peter,  square, 
broad-shouldered,  had  no  scrap  of  morbidity  in  his  clean 
body.  He  did  not  await  the  future  with  the  shaking  candlei 
of  the  suddenly  awakened  coward,  but  rather  with  the  \ 
planted  feet  and  the  bared  teeth  of  the  bull-dog.  ...  j 

He  watched  the  faces  of  his  father,  his  aunt  and  Mrs. 
Trussit.  He  observed  the  frightened  dreams  of  his  grand- 
father, the  way  that  old  Curtis  the  gardener  would  sud- 
denly cease  his  fugitive  digging  and  glance  with  furtive 
eyes  at  the  windows  of  the  house;  about  them  were  the 
dark  shadows  of  the  long  passages,  the  sharp  note  of  some 
banging  door  in  a  distant  room,  the  wail  of  that  endless 
wind  beyond  the  walls.  He  felt  too  that  Mrs.  Trussit  and 
his  aunt  were  furtively  watching  him.  He  never  caught 
them  in  anything  tangible  but  he  knew  that,  when  his  back 
was  turned,  their  eyes  followed  him — questioning,  wonder- 
ing. 

Something  must  be  done  or  he  could  not  answer  for  his 
control.     If  he  were  not  to  return  to  Dawson's,  what  then? 

It  was  his  seventeenth  birthday  one  hot  day  towards 
the  end  of  August,  and  at  breakfast  his  father,  \vithout 
looking  up  from  his  paper,  said: 


94  FORTITUDE 

"  I  have  made  arrangements  for  you  with  Mr.  Aitchinson 
to  enter  his  office  next  week.  You'll  have  to  work — you've 
been  idling  long  enough." 

The  windows  were  wide  open,  the  lawn  was  burning  in 
the  sun,  bees  carried  the  scent  of  the  flowers  with  them  into 
the  air  that  hung  like  shining  metal  about  the  earth,  a  cart 
rattled  as  though  it  were  a  giant  clattering  his  pleasure  at 
the  day  down  the  road.  It  was  a  wonderful  day  and  some- 
where streams  were  flowing  under  dark  protecting  trees,  and 
the  grass  was  thick  in  cool  hollows  and  the  woods  were  so 
dense  that  no  blue  sky  reached  the  moss,  but  only  the  softest 
twilight  .  .  .  and  old  Aitchinson,  the  town's  solicitor,  with 
his  nutcracker  face,  his  snuffling  nose,  his  false  teeth — and 
the  tightly-closed  office,  the  piles  of  paper,  the  ink,  the  silly 
view  from  the  dusty  windows  of  Treliss  High  Street — and 
life  always  in  the  future  to  be  like  that  until  he  died. 

But  Peter  showed  no  emotion. 

"  Very  well,  father — What  day  do  I  go  ?  " 

"  Monday — nine  o'clock." 

Nothing  more  was  said.  At  any  rate  Aitchinson  and  his 
red  tape  and  his  moral  dust  would  fill  the  day — no  time 
then  to  dwell  on  these  dark  passages  and  Mrs.  Trussit's 
frightened  eyes  and  the  startled  jump  of  the  marble  clock 
in  the  dining-room  just  before  it  struck  the  hour.  .  .  . 

n 

And  so  for  weeks  it  proved.  Aitchinson  demanded  no 
serious  consideration.  He  was  a  hideous  little  man  with 
eyes  like  pins,  shaggy  eyebrows,  a  nose  that  swelled  at  the 
end  and  was  pinched  by  the  sharpest  of  pince-nez,  cheeks 
that  hung  white  and  loose  except  when  he  was  hungry  or 
angry,  and  then  they  were  tight  and  red,  a  little  body 
rather  dandily  dressed  with  a  flowered  waistcoat,  a  white 
stock,  a  skirted  coat  and  pepper-and-salt  trousers — and  last 
of  all,  tiny  feet,  of  which  he  was  inordinately  proud  and 
with  which,  like  Agag,  he  always  walked  delicately.  He 
bad  a  high  falsetto  voice,  fingers  that  were  always  picking, 
like  eager  hens,  at  the  buttons  on  his  waistcoat  or  the  little 
waxed  moustache  above  his  mouth,  and  hair  that  occupied 
its  time  in  covering  a  bald  patch  that  always  escaped  evecx 


SCAW  HOUSE  96 

design  upon  it.  So  much  for  Mr.  Aitchinson.  Let  him  be 
flattered  sufficiently  and  Peter  saw  that  his  way  would  be 
easy.  The  wizened  little  creature  had,  moreover,  a  certain 
admiration  for  Peter's  strength  and  broad  shoulders  and 
used  sometimes  in  the  middle  of  the  morning's  work  to  ask 
Peter  how  much  he  weighed,  whether  he'd  ever  considered 
taking  up  prize-fighting  as  a  profession,  and  how  much  he 
measured  across  the  chest. 

There  were  two  other  youths,  articled  like  Peter,  stupid 
sons  of  honest  Treliss  householders,  with  high  collars,  faces 
that  shone  with  soap  and  hair  that  glistened  with  oil,  lan- 
guid voices  and  a  perpetual  fund  of  small  talk  about  the 
ladies  of  the  town,  moral  and  otherwise.  Peter  did  not 
like  them  and  they  did  not  like  Peter.  One  day,  because 
he  was  tired  and  unhappy,  he  knocked  their  heads  together, 
and  they  plotted  to  destroy  him,  but  they  were  afraid,  and 
secretly  admired  what  they  called  his  coarse  habits. 

The  Summer  stole  away  and  Autumn  crept  into  its  place, 
and  at  the  end  of  October  something  occurred.  Something 
suddenly  happened  at  Scaw  House  that  made  action  im- 
perative, and  filled  his  brain  all  day  so  that  Aitchinson's 
office  and  his  work  there  was  only  a  dream  and  the  people 
in  it  were  shadows.  He  had  heard  his  mother  crying  from 
behind  her  closed  door.  .  .  . 

He  had  been  coming,  on  a  wet  autumnal  afternoon,  down 
the  dark  stairs  from  his  attic  and  suddenly  at  the  other  end 
of  the  long  passage  there  had  been  this  sound,  so  sudden 
and  so  pitiful  coming  upon  that  dreary  stillness  that  he 
had  stopped  with  his  hands  clenched  and  his  face  white 
and  his  heart  beating  like  a  knock  on  a  door.  Instantly 
all  those  many  little  moments  that  he  had  had  in  that  white 
room  with  that  heavy-scented  air  crowded  upon  him  and  he 
remembered  the  smile  that  she  had  always  given  him  and 
the  way  that  her  hair  lay  so  tragically  about  the  pillow. 
He  had  always  been  frightened  and  eager  to  escape;  he 
felt  suddenly  so  deeply  ashamed  that  the  crimson  flooded  his 
face  there  in  the  dark  passage.  She  had  wanted  him  all 
these  years  and  he  had  allowed  those  other  people  to  prevent 
him  from  going  to  her.  What  had  been  happening  to  her 
in  that  room?  The  sound  of  her  crying  came  to  him  as 
though  beseeching  him  to  come  and  help  her.     He  put  his, 


D6  FORTITUDE 

hands  to  his  ears  and  went  desperately  into  the  dark  wet 
garden.  He  knew  now  when  he  thought  of  it,  that  his 
behaviour  to  his  mother  had  been,  during  these  months  since 
he  had  left  Dawson's,  an  unconscious  cowardice.  \Vhilst 
he  had  been  yet  at  school  those  little  five  minutes'  visits 
to  his  mother's  room  might  have  been  excused,  but  during 
these  last  months  there  had  been,  with  regard  to  her,  in 
his  conscience,  if  he  had  cared  to  examine  it,  sharp  accusa- 
tion. 

The  defence  that  she  did  not  really  want  to  see  him,  that 
his  presence  might  bring  on  some  bad  attack,  might  excite 
her,  was  no  real  defence.  He  had  postponed  an  interview 
with  her  from  day  to  day  because  he  realised  that  that  in- 
terview would  strike  into  flame  all  the  slumbering  relations 
that  that  household  held.  It  would  fling  them  all,  as  though 
from  a  preconcerted  signal,  into  war.  .  .  . 

But  now  there  could  be  only  one  thought  in  his  mind. 
He  must  see  his  mother — if  he  could  still  help  her  he  must 
be  at  her  service.  There  was  no  one  whom  he  could  ask 
about  her.  Mrs.  Trussit  now  never  spoke  to  him  (and  in- 
deed never  spoke  to  any  one  if  she  could  help  it),  and  went 
up  and  down  the  stairs  in  her  rustling  black  and  flat  white 
face  and  jingling  keys  as  though  she  was  no  human  being 
at  all  but  only  a  walking  automaton  tliat  you  wound  up  in 
the  morning  and  put  away  in  the  cupboard  at  night — Mrs. 
Trussit  was  of  no  use. 

There  remained  Stephen,  and  this  decided  Peter  to  break 
through  that  barrier  that  there  was  between  them  and  to 
find  out  why  it  had  ever  existed.  He  had  not  seen  Stephen 
that  summer  at  all — no  one  saw  Stephen — only  at  The 
Bending  Mule  they  shook  their  heads  over  him  and  spoke 
of  the  wild  devil  that  had  come  upon  him  because  the  woman 
he  loved  was  being  tortured  to  death  by  her  husband  only  a 
mile  away.  He  was  drinking,  they  said,  and  his  farm  was 
going  to  ruin,  and  he  would  speak  to  nobody — and  they 
shook  their  heads.  It  was  not  through  cowardice  that  Peter 
had  avoided  him,  but  since  those  three  years  at  Dawson's 
be  had  been  lonely  and  silent  himself,  and  Stephen  had 
never  sent  for  him  as  he  would  have  done,  Peter  thought, 
if  he  had  wanted  him.  Now  the  time  had  come  yrhcn  be 
could  stand  alone  no  longer.  .  •  • 


scAw  HOUSE  m 

He  slipped  away  one  night  after  supper,  leaving  that 
quiet  room  with  his  aunt  playing  Patience  at  the  table,  his 
old  grandfather  mumbling  in  his  sleep,  his  father  like  a 
stone,  staring  at  his  paper  but  not,  Peter  was  sure,  reading 
any  of  it. 

Mrs.  Trussit,  silent  before  the  fire  in  her  room,  his  aunt 
not  seeing  the  cards  that  she  laid  upon  the  table,  his  father 
not  reading  his  paper — for  what  were  they  all  listening? 

It  was  a  fierce  night  and  the  wind  rushed  up  the  high 
road  as  though  it  would  tear  Peter  off  his  feet  and  fling 
him  into  the  sea,  but  he  walked  sturdily,  no  cap  on  his  head 
and  the  wind  streaming  through  his  hair.  Some  way  along 
the  road  he  found  a  child  crying  in  a  ditch.  He  loved 
children,  and,  picking  the  small  boy  up,  he  found  that  he 
had  been  sent  for  beer  to  the  Cap  and  Feathers,  at  the 
turn  of  the  road,  and  been  blown  by  the  wind  into  the  ditch 
and  was  almost  dead  with  terror.  At  first  at  the  sight  of 
Peter  the  child  had  cried  out,  but  at  the  touch  of  his  warm 
hand  and  at  the  sound  of  his  laugh  he  had  been  suddenly 
comforted,  and  trotted  down  the  road  with  his  hand  in 
Peter's  and  his  tears  dried. 

Peter's  way  with  the  children  of  the  place  was  sharp  and 
entirely  lacking  in  sentiment — "  Little  idiot,  to  fall  into 
the  ditch  like  that — ^not  much  of  the  man  about  you,  young 
Thomas." 

"  Isn't  Thomas,"  said  the  small  boy  with  a  chuckle, 
"  I  be  Jan  Proteroe,  and  I  beant  af  eart  only  gert  beast 
come  out  of  hedge  down  along  with  eyes  and  a  tail — 
gum! " 

He  would  have  told  Peter  a  great  deal  more  but  he  was 
suddenly  frightened  again  by  the  dark  hedges  and  began  to 
whimper,  so  Peter  picked  him  up  and  carried  him  to  his 
cottage  at  the  end  of  the  road  and  kissed  him  and  pushed 
him  in  at  the  lighted  door.  He  was  cheered  by  the  little 
incident  and  felt  less  lonely.  At  the  thought  of  making 
Stephen  once  more  his  friend  his  heart  warmed.  Stephen 
had  been  wanting  him,  perhaps,  all  this  time  to  come  to 
him  but  had  been  afraid  that  ihe  might  be  interfering  if 
he  asked  him — and  how  glad  they  would  be  to  see  one  an- 
other ! 

After  all,  they  needed  one  another.     They  had  both  had 


98  FORTITUDE 

hard  times,  they  were  both  lonely  and  no  distance  nor  cir- 
cumstances could  lessen  that  early  bond  that  there  had  been 
between  them.  Happier  than  he  had  been  for  many  weeks, 
he  struck  off  the  road  and  started  across  the  fields,  stum- 
bling over  the  rough  soil  and  plunging  sometimes  into 
ditches  and  pools  of  water.  The  rain  had  begun  to  fall 
and  the  whispering  hiss  that  it  made  as  it  struck  the  earth 
drowned  the  more  distant  noise  of  the  sea  that  solemnly 
broke  beyond  the  bending  fields.  Stephen's  farm  stood 
away  from  all  other  houses,  and  Peter  as  he  pressed  for- 
ward seemed  to  be  leaving  all  civilisation  behind  him.  He 
was  cold  and  his  boots  were  heavy  with  thick  wet  mud  and 
his  hair  was  soaked. 

Beyond  the  fields  was  a  wood  through  which  he  must 
pass  before  he  reached  Stephen's  farm,  and  as  the  trees 
closed  about  him  and  he  heard  the  rain  driving  through  the 
bare  branches  the  world  seemed  to  be  full  of  chattering 
noises.  The  confidence  that  he  had  had  in  Stephen's  re- 
ception of  him  suddenly  deserted  him  and  a  cold  miserable 
unhappiness  crept  about  him  in  this  wet,  heaving  world  of 
wind  and  rain  and  bare  naked  trees.  Like  a  great  cry  there 
seemed  to  come  suddenly  to  him  through  the  wood  his 
mother's  voice  appealing  for  help,  so  that  he  nearly  turned, 
running  back.  It  was  a  hard,  cruel  place  this  world — and 
all  the  little  ditches  and  hollows  of  the  wood  were  running 
with  brown,  stealthy  water. 

He  broke  through  it  at  last  and  saw  at  the  bottom  of  the 
hill  Stephen's  house,  and  he  saw  that  there  were  no  lights 
in  the  windows.  He  stood  on  the  breast  of  the  little  hill 
for  a  moment  and  thouglit  that  he  would  turn  back,  but  it 
was  raining  now  with  great  heaviness  and  the  wind  at  his 
back  seemed  to  beat  him  down  the  hill.  Suddenly  seized 
with  terror  at  the  wood  behind  him,  he  ran  stumbling  down 
the  slope.  He  undid  the  gate  and  pitched  into  the  yard, 
plunging  into  great  |m)o1s  of  water  and  seeing  on  every 
gide  of  him  the  uncertain  shapes  of  the  barns  and  sheds 
and  opposite  Iiim  the  great  dark  front  of  the  house,  so  black 
in  its  unfriendliness,  sharing  in  the  night's  rough  hostility. 

He  shouted  "  Stephen,"  but  his  voice  was  drowned  by 
the  storm  and  the  gate  behind  him,  creaking  on  its  hinges- 
answered  him  with  shrill  cries.     He  found  the  little  wickr\ 


SCAW  HOUSE  99 

tfiat  led  into  the  garden,  and,  stepping  over  the  heavy  wet 
grass,  he  banged  loudly  with  the  knocker  on  the  door  and 
called  again  "  Stephen."  The  noise  echoed  through  the 
house  and  then  the  silence  seemed  to  be  redoubled.  Then 
pushing  the  great  knocker,  he  found  to  his  surprise  that 
the  door  was  unfastened  and  swung  back  before  him.  He 
felt  his  way  into  the  dark  hall  and  struck  a  match.  He 
shouted  "  Stephen  "  once  more  and  his  voice  came  echoing 
back  to  him.  The  place  seemed  to  be  entirely  deserted — 
the  walls  were  wet  with  damp,  there  were  no  carpets  on 
the  floor,  a  window  at  the  end  of  the  passage  showed  its 
uncurtained  square. 

He  passed  into  the  kitchen,  and  here  he  found  two  can- 
dles and  lighted  them.  Here  also  he  found  signs  of  life. 
On  the  bare  deal  table  was  a  half-finished  meal — a  loaf  of 
bread,  cheese,  butter,  an  empty  whisky  bottle  lying  on 
its  side.  Near  these  things  there  was  a  table,  and  on  the 
floor,  beside  an  overturned  chair,  there  was  a  gun.  Peter 
picked  it  up  and  saw  that  it  was  unloaded.  There  was 
something  terribly  desolate  about  these  things;  the  room 
was  very  bare,  a  grandfather  clock  ticked  solemnly  in  the 
corner,  there  were  a  few  plates  and  cups  on  the  dresser, 
an  old  calendar  hung  from  a  dusty  nail  and,  blown  by  the 
wind  from  the  cracked  window,  tip-tapped  like  a  stealthy 
footstep  against  the  wall.  But  Peter  felt  curiously  certain 
that  Stephen  was  going  to  return;  something  held  him  in 
his  chair  and  he  sat  there,  with  his  hands  on  the  deal  table, 
facing  the  clock  and  listening.  The  wind  howled  beyond 
the  house,  the  rain  lashed  the  panes,  and  suddenly — so  sud- 
denly that  his  heart  leapt  to  his  mouth — there  was  a  scratch- 
ing on  the  door.  He  went  to  the  door  and  opened  it  and 
found  outside  a  wretched  sheep-dog,  so  starved  that  the 
bones  showed  through  the  skin,  and  so  weak  that  he  could 
scarcely  drag  himself  along.  Peter  let  him  in  and  the  ani- 
mal came  up  to  him  and  looked  up  in  his  eyes  and,  very 
faintly,  wagged  his  tail.  Peter  gave  him  the  bread,  which 
the  dog  devoured,  and  then  they  both  remained  silent,  with- 
out moving,  the  dog's  head  between  Peter's  knees. 

The  boy  must  have  slept,  because  he  woke  suddenly  to 
all  the  clocks  in  the  house  striking  midnight,  and  in  the 
silence  the  house  seemed  to  be  full  of  clocks.     They  came 


100  FORTITUDE 

running  down  the  stairs  and  up  and  down  the  passages 
and  then,  with  a  whir  and  a  clatter,  ceased  as  instantly  as 
they  had  begun. 

The  house  was  silent  again — the  storm  had  died  down — 
and  then  the  dog  that  had  been  sleeping  suddenly  raised 
its  head  and  barked.  Somewhere  in  the  distance  a  door 
was  banged  to,  and  then  Peter  heard  a  voice,  a  tremendous 
voice,  singing. 

There  were  heavy  steps  along  the  passage,  then  the 
kitchen  door  was  banged  open  and  Stephen  stood  in  the 
doorway.  Stephen's  shirt  was  open  at  the  neck,  his  hair 
waved  wildly  over  his  forehead,  he  stood,  enormous,  with 
his  legs  apart,  his  eyes  shining,  blood  coming  from  a  cut 
in  his  cheek,  and  in  one  of  his  hands  was  a  thick  cudgel. 
Standing  there  in  the  doorway,  he  might  have  been  some 
ancient  Hercules,  some  mighty  Achilles. 

He  saw  Peter,  recognised  him,  but  continued  a  kind  of 
triumphal  hymn  that  he  was  singing. 

"  Ho,  Master  Peter,  I've  beat  him !  I've  battered  his 
bloody  carcass !  I  came  along  and  I  looked  in  at  the  win- 
der and  I  saw  'im  a  ill-treatin'  of  'er. 

"  I  left  the  winder,  I  broke  the  glass,  I  was  down  upon 
'im,  the  dirty  *ound,  and  " — (chorus) — "  I've  battered  'is 
bloody  carcass !  Praise  be  the  Lord,  I  got  'im  one  between 
the  eyes — " 

"  Praise  be,  I  'it  him  square  in  the  jaw  and  the  blood 
came  a-pourin'  out  of  his  mouth  and  down  'e  went,  and — 

(Chorus)   "  I've  battered  'is  bloody  carcass — 

"  There  she  was,  cryin'  in  the  comer  of  the  room,  my 
lovely  girl,  and  there  'e  was,  blast  'is  bones,  with  'is  'and 
on  her  lovely  'air,  and — 

(Chorus)   "  I've  battered  'is  bloody  carcass. 

"  I  got  'im  one  on  the  neck  and  I  got  'im  one  between  'is 
lovely  eyes  and  I  got  'im  one  on  'is  lovely  nose,  and  'e  went 
down  straight  afore  me,  and — 

(Chorus)  "I've  battered  'is  bloody  carcass!** 

Peter  knew  that  it  must  be  Mr.  Samuel  Burstead  to 
whom  Stephen  was  referring,  and  he  too,  as  he  listened, 
was  suddenly  filled  with  a  sense  of  glory  and  exultation. 
Here  after  all  was  a  way  out  of  all  trouble,  all  this  half- 
seen,  half-imagined  terror  of  the  past  weeks.     Here  too 


SCAW  HOUSE  101 

was  an  end  to  all  Stephen's  morbid  condition,  sitting  alone 
by  himself,  drinking,  seeing  no  one — now  that  he'd  got 
Burstead  between  the  eyes  life  would  be  a  vigorous,  decent 
thing  once  more. 

Stephen  stopped  his  hymn  and  came  and  put  his  arm 
round  Peter's  neck.  "  Well,  boy,  to  think  of  you  coming 
round  this  evening.  All  these  months  I've  been  sittin*  'ere 
thinking  of  you — but  I've  been  in  a  nasty,  black  state, 
Master  Peter,  doing  nothing  but  just  brood.  And  the 
devil's  got  thicker  and  thicker  about  me  and  I  was  just 
going  off  my  head  thinking  of  my  girl  in  the  *ands  of  that 
beast  up  along.  At  last  to-night  I  suddenly  says,  '  Stephen, 
my  fine  feller,  you've  *ad  enough  of  this,*  I  says.  *  You 
go  up  and  'ave  a  good  knock  at  'im,'  I  says,  *  and  to-morrer 
marnin'  you  just  go  off  to  another  bit  o'  country  and  start 
doin'  something  different.'  Up  I  got  and  I  caught  hold  of 
this  stick  here  and  out  up  along  I  walked.  Sure  enough 
there  'e  was,  through  the  winder,  bullyin*  her  and  she 
crying.  So  I  just  jumped  through  the  winder  and  was  up 
on  to  'im.  Lord,  you  should  *ave  seen  'im  jump. 
"  *  Fair  fight,  Sam  Burstead,*  I  says. 
"  *  Yer  bloody  pirate ! '  says  *e. 

"  *  Pirate,  is  it  ?  '  says  I,  landing  him  one — and  at  that 
first  feel  of  my  *and  along  o'  'is  cheek  all  these  devils  that 
I've  been  sufferin'  from  just  turned  tail  and  fled. 
**  Lord,  I  give  it  'im !  Lord,  I  give  it  'im ! 
"  He's  living,  I  reckon,  but  that's  about  all  *e  is  doing. 
And  then,  without  a  word  to  'er,  I  come  away,  and  here 
I  am,  a  free  man.  .  .  .  and  to-morrer  marning  I  go  out  to 
tramp  the  world  a  bit — and  to  come  back  one  day  when  she 
wants  me." 

And  then  in  Peter  there  suddenly  leapt  to  life  a  sense  of 
battle,  of  glorious  combat  and  conflict. 

As  he  stood  there  in  the  bare  kitchen — he  and  Stephen 
there  under  the  light  of  the  jumping  candle — with  the 
rain  beating  on  the  panes,  the  trees  of  the  wood  bending 
to  the  wind,  he  was  seized,  exalted,  transformed  with  a 
sense  of  the  vigour,  the  adventure,  the  surprising  energy 
of  life. 

"  Stephen  !  Stephen !  "  he  cried.  "  It's  glorious  !  By 
God!  I  wish  I'd  been  there!  " 


10«  FORTITUDE 

Stephen  caught  him  by  the  arm  and  held  him.  The  old 
dog  came  from  under  the  table  and  wagged  his  tail. 

"  Bless  my  soul,"  said  Stephen,  looking  at  him,  "  all 
these  weeks  I've  been  forgetting  him.  I've  been  in  a  kind 
of  dream,  boy — a  kind  o'  dream.  Why  didn't  I  'it  'im  be- 
fore?    Lord,  why  didn't  I  'it  'im  before!" 

Peter  at  the  word  tliought  of  his  mother. 

"  Yes,"  he  thought,  with  clenched  teeth,  "  I'll  go  for 
them!" 


CHAPTER  Vril 
PETER  AND  HIS  MOTHER 


HE  had  returned  over  the  heavy  fields,  singing  to  a 
round-faced  moon.  In  the  morning,  when  he  woke 
after  a  night  of  glorious  fantastic  dreams,  and  saw  the  sun 
beating  very  brightly  across  his  carpet  and  birds  singing 
beyond  his  window,  he  felt  still  that  same  exultation. 

It  seemed  to  him,  as  he  sat  on  his  bed,  with  the  sun 
striking  his  face,  that  last  night  he  had  been  brought  into 
touch  with  a  vigour  that  challenged  all  the  mists  and  vapours 
by  which  he  had  felt  himself  surrounded.  That  was  the 
way  that  now  he  would  face  them. 

Looking  back  afterwards,  he  was  to  see  that  that  even- 
ing with  Stephen  flung  him  on  to  all  the  events  that  so  rap- 
idly followed. 

Moreover,  above  all  the  sensation  of  the  evening  there 
was  also  a  triumphant  recognition  of  the  fact  that  Stephen 
had  now  been  restored  to  him.  He  might  never  see  him 
again,  but  they  were  friends  once  more,  he  could  not  be 
lonely  now  as  he  had  been.  ,  .  . 

And  then,  coming  out  of  the  town  into  the  dark  street 
and  the  starlight,  he  thought  that  he  recognised  a  square 
form  walking  before  him.  He  puzzled  his  brain  to  recall 
the  connection  and  then,  as  he  passed  Zachary  Tan's  shop, 
the  figure  turned  in  and  showed,  for  a  moment,  his  face. 

It  was  that  strange  man  from  London,  Mr.  Emilio 
Zanti.  .  .  . 

11 

It  seemed  to  Peter  that  now  at  Scaw  House  the  sense 
of  expectation  that  had  been  with  them  all  during  the  last 
weeks  was  charged  with  suspense — at  supper  that  night  his 
aunt  burst  suddenly  into  tears  and  left  the  room.  Shortly 
afterwards  his  father  also,  without  a  word,  got  up  from  the 
table  and  went  upstairs.  .  .  . 

Peter  was  left  alone  with  his  grandfather.     The  old  man, 

103 


104  FORTITUDE 

sunk  beneath  his  pile  of  cushions,  his  brown  skinny  hand 
clenching  and  unclenching  above  the  rugs,  was  muttering  to 
himself.  In  Peter  himself,  as  he  stood  there  by  the  fire, 
looking  down  on  the  old  man,  there  was  tremendous  pity. 
He  had  never  felt  so  tenderly  towards  his  grandfather  be- 
fore; it  was,  perhaps,  because  he  had  himself  grown  up  all 
in  a  day.  Last  night  had  proved  that  one  was  grown  up 
indeed,  although  one  was  but  seventeen.  But  it  proved  to 
him  still  more  that  the  time  had  come  for  him  to  deal  with 
the  situation  all  about  him,  to  discover  the  thing  that  was 
occupying  them  all  so  deeply. 

Peter  bent  down  to  the  cushions. 

"Grandfather,  what's  the  matter  with  the  house?" 

He  could  hear,  faintly,  beneath  the  rugs  something  about 
"  hell  "  and  "  fire  "  and  "  poor  old  man." 

"Grandfather,  what's  the  matter  with  the  house?"  but 
still  only  "  Poor  old  man  .  .  .  poor  old  man  .  .  .  nobody 
loves  him  .  .  .  nobody  loves  him  ...  to  hell  with  the  lot 
of  'em  ...  let  'em  grizzle  in  hell  fire  ...  oh!  such  nasty 
pains  for  a  poor  old  man." 

"Grandfather,  what's  the  matter  with  the  house?" 

The  old  brown  hand  suddenly  stopped  clenching  and  un- 
clenching, and  out  from  the  cushions  the  old  brown  head 
with  its  few  hairs  and  its  parchment  face  poked  like  a  with- 
ered jack-in-the-box. 

"  Hullo,  boy,  you  here?  " 

"Grandfather,  what's  the  matter  with  the  house?" 

The  old  man's  fingers,  sharp  like  pins,  drew  Peter  close 
to  him. 

"  Boy,  I'm  terribly  frightened.  I've  been  having  such 
dreams.     I  thought  I  was  dead — in  a  coffin.  .  .  ." 

But  Peter  whispered  in  his  ear: 

"  Grandfather — tell  me — what's  the  matter  with  every 
one  here  ?  " 

The  old  man's  eyes  were  suddenly  sharp,  like  needles. 

"  Ah,  he  wants  to  know  tliat,  does  he  ?  He's  found  out 
something  at  last,  has  he?  /  know  what  they  were  about. 
They've  been  at  it  in  here,  boy,  too.  Oh,  yes !  for  weeks 
and  weeks — killing  your  mother,  that's  what  my  son's  been 
doing  .  .  .  frightening  her  to  death.  .  .  .  He's  cruel,  my 
son.     I  had  the  Devil  once,  and  now  he's  got  hold  of  me 


SCAW  HOUSE  106 

and  that's  why  I'm  here.  Mind  you,  boy,"  and  the  old 
man's  fingers  clutched  him  very  tightly — "  If  you  don't  get 
.the  better  of  the  Devil  you'll  be  just  like  me  one  of  these 
days.  So'll  he  be,  my  son,  one  day.  Just  like  me — and 
then  it'll  be  your  turn,  my  boy.  Oh,  they  Westcotts!  .  .  . 
Oh!  my  pains!  Oh!  my  pains!  .  .  .  Oh!  I'm  a  poor  old 
man ! — poor  old  man !  " 

His  head  sunk  beneath  the  cushions  again  and  his  mut- 
tering died  away  like  a  kettle  when  the  lid  has  been  put 
on  to  it. 

Peter  had  been  kneeling  so  as  to  catch  his  grandfather's 
words.  Now  he  drew  himself  up  and  with  frowning  brows 
faced  the  room.  Had  he  but  known  it  he  was  at  that  mo- 
ment, exactly  like  his  father. 

He  went  slowly  up  to  his  attic. 

His  little  book-case  had  gained  in  the  last  two  years — 
there  were  now  three  of  Henry  Galleon's  novels  there. 
Bobby  had  given  him  one,  "  Henry  Lessingham,"  shining 
bravely  in  its  red  and  gold ;  he  had  bought  another,  "  The 
Downs,"  second  hand,  and  it  was  rather  tattered  and  well 
thumbed.  Another,  "  The  Roads,"  was  a  shilling  paper 
copy.  He  had  read  these  three  again  and  again  until  he 
knew  them  by  heart,  almost  word  by  word.  He  took  down 
"  Henry  Lessingham "  now  and  opened  it  at  a  page  that 
was  turned  down.  It  is  Book  III,  chapter  VI,  and  there 
is  this  passage: 

But,  concerning  the  Traveller  who  would  enter  the  House 
of  Courage  there  are  many  lands  that  must  he  passed  on  the 
road  before  he  rest  there.  There  is,  first,  the  Land  of 
Lacking  All  Things — that  is  hard  to  cross.  There  is. 
Secondly,  the  Land  of  Having  All  Things.  There  is  the 
Traveller's  Fortitude  most  hardly  tested.  There  is.  Thirdly, 
The  Land  of  Losing  All  Those  Things  that  One  Hath 
Possessed.  That  is  a  hard  country  indeed  for  the  memory 
of  the  pleasantness  of  those  earlier  joys  redoubleth  the  agony 
of  lacking  them.  But  at  the  end  there  is  a  Land  of  ice  and 
snow  that  ferv  travellers  have  compassed,  and  that  is  the 
Land  of  Knorving  What  One  Hath  Missed.  .  .  .  The  Bird 
was  in  the  hand  and  one  let  it  go  .  .  .  that  is  the  hardest 
agony  of  all  the  journey  .  .  .  but  if  these  lands  be  en- 


106  FORTITUDE 

]  countered  and  surpassed  then  doth  the  Traveller  at  lengtU 
I  possess  his  soul  and  is  master  of  it  .  .  .  this  is  the  Meaning 
I     and  Purpose  of  Life. 

Peter  read  on  through  those  pages  where  Lessingham, 
having  found  these  words  in  some  old  book,  takes  courage 
after  his  many  misadventures  and  starts  again  life — an 
old  man,  seventy  years  of  age,  but  full  of  hope  ,  .  .  and 
then  there  is  his  wonderful  death  in  the  Plague  City,  closing 
it  all  like  a  Triumph. 

The  night   had   come   down  upon   the  house.     Over  the 

moor   some  twinkling  light  broke  the  black  darkness   and 

his   candle   blew  in   the  wind.     Everything  was   very   still 

and  as  he  clutched  his  book  in  his  hand  he  knew  that  he 

was    frightened.     His   grandfather's   words   had    filled   him 

with  terror.     He   felt  not  only  that   his   father  was   cruel 

and  had  been  torturing  his  mother  for  many  years  because 

he  loved  to  hurt,  but  he  felt  also  that  it  was  something  in 

the  blood,  and  that  it  would  come  upon  him  also,  in  later 

years,  and  that  he  might  not  be  able  to  beat  it  down.     He 

/   could   understand  definite  things  when  they  were  tangible 

/     before  his  eyes  but  here  was  something  that  one  could  not 

j      catch  hold  of,  something  .  .  . 

^  After  all,  he  was  very  young — But  he  remembered,  with 
bated  breath,  times  at  school  when  he  had  suddenly  wanted 
to  twist  arms,  to  break  things,  to  hurt,  when  suddenly  a 
fierce  hot  pleasure  had  come  upon  him,  when  a  boy  had  had 
his  leg  broken  at  football. 

Dropping  the  book,  shuddering,  he  fell  upon  his  knees 
and  prayed  to  what  God  he  knew  not.  ..."  Then  doth') 
J     the  Traveller  at  length  possess  his  soul  and  is  master  of  ) 
V    it  .  .  .  this  is  the  meaning  and  purpose  of  life." 
'       At  last  he  rose  from  his  knees,  physically  tired,  as  though 
it  had  been  some  physical  struggle.     But  he  was  quiet  again 
.  .  .  the  terror  had  left  him,  but  he  knew  now  with  what 
beasts  he  had  got  to  wrestle.  .  .  . 

At  supper  that  night  he  watched  his  father.  Curiously, 
after  his  struggle  of  the  afternoon,  all  terror  had  left  him 
and  he  felt  as  though  he  was  of  liis  father's  age  and 
strength. 

In  the  middle  of  the  meal  he  spoke: 


SCAW  HOUSE  107 

"  How  is  mother  to-night^  father  ?  " 

He  had  never  asked  about  his  mother  before,  but  his  voice 
was  quite  even  and  steady.  His  aunt  dropped  her  knife 
clattering  on  to  her  plate. 

His  father  answered  him: 

"  Why  do  you  wish  to  know  ?  " 

"  It  is  natural,  isn't  it.''  I  am  afraid  that  she  is  not  so 
well." 

"  She  is  as  well  as  can  be  expected." 
•    They  said  no  more,  but  once  his  father  suddenly  looked 
at  him,  as  though  he  had  noticed  some  new  note  in  his  voice. 

Ill 

On  the  next  afternoon  his  father  went  into  Truro.  A 
doctor  came  occasionally  to  the  house — a  little  man  like  a 
beaver — but  Peter  felt  that  he  was  under  his  father's  hand 
and  he  despised  him. 

It  was  a  clear  Autumn  afternoon  with  a  scent  of  burning 
leaves  in  the  air  and  heavy  massive  white  clouds  were  piled 
in  ramparts  beyond  the  brown  hills.  It  was  so  still  a  day 
that  the  sea  seemed  to  be  murmuring  just  beyond  the  garden- 
wall.  The  house  was  very  silent;  Mrs.  Trussit  was  in  the 
housekeeper's  room,  his  grandfather  was  sleeping  in  the  din- 
ing-room. The  voices  of  some  children  laughing  in  the  road 
came  to  him  so  clearly  that  it  seemed  to  Peter  impossible 
that  his  father  .  .  .  and,  at  that,  he  knew  instantly  that 
his  chance  had  come.  He  must  see  his  mother  now — there 
might  not  be  another  opportunity  for  many  weeks. 

He  left  his  room  and  stood  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  lis- 
tening.    There  was  no  sound. 

He  stole  down  very  softly  and  then  waited  again  at  the 
end  of  the  long  passage.  The  ticking  of  the  grandfather 
clock  in  the  hall  drove  him  down  the  passage.  He  listened 
again  outside  his  mother's  door — there  was  no  sound  from 
within  and  very  slowly  he  turned  the  handle. 

As  the  door  opened  his  senses  were  invaded  by  that  air 
of  medicine  and  flowers  that  he  had  remembered  as  a  very 
small  boy — he  seemed  to  be  surrounded  by  it  and  great 
white  vases  on  the  mantelpiece  filled  his  eyes,  and  the  white 
curtains  at  the  window  blew  in  the  breeze  of  the  opening 
dooi. 


IM  FORTITUDE 

His  aunt  was  sitting,  with  her  eternal  sewing,  by  the 
fire  and  she  rose  as  he  entered.  She  gave  a  little  startled 
cry,  like  a  twittering  bird,  as  she  saw  that  it  was  he  and  she 
came  towards  him  with  her  hand  out.  He  did  not  look  at 
the  bed  at  all,  but  bent  his  eyes  gravely  upon  his  aunt. 

"  Please,  aunt — ^you  must  leave  us — I  want  to  speak 
to  my  mother." 

"No — Peter — how  could  you?  I  daren't — I  mustn't 
— ^your  father — your  mother  is  asleep,"  and  then,  from 
behind  them,  there  came  a  very  soft  voice — 

"  No — let  us  be  alone — please,  Jessie." 

Peter  did  not,  even  then,  turn  round  to  the  bed,  but  fixed 
his  eyes  on  his  aunt. 

"  The  doctor — "  she  gasped,  and  then,  with  frightened 
eyes,  she  picked  up  her  sewing  and  crept  out. 

Then  he  turned  round  and  faced  the  bed,  and  was  sud- 
denly smitten  with  great  shyness  at  the  sight  of  that  white, 
tired  face,  and  the  black  hair  about  the  pillow. 

"  Well,  mother,"  he  said,  stupidly. 

But  she  smiled  back  at  him,  and  although  her  voice  was 
very  small  and  faint,  she  spoke  cheerfully  and  as  though 
this  were  an  ordinary  event. 

"  Well,  you've  come  to  see  me  at  last,  Peter,"  she  said. 

"  I  mustn't  stay  long,"  he  answered,  gruflBy,  as  he  moved 
awkwardly  towards  the  bed. 

"  Bring  your  chair  close  up  to  the  bed — so — like  that. 
You  have  never  come  to  sit  in  here  before,  Peter,  do  you 
know  that  ?  " 

"  Yes,  mother."  He  turned  his  eyes  away  and  looked 
on  to  the  floor. 

"  You  have  come  in  before  because  you  have  been  told  to. 
To-day  you  were  not  told — why  did  you  come  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  .  .  .  Father's  in  Truro." 

"  Yes,  I  know."  He  thought  he  caught,  for  an  instant,  a 
strange  note  in  her  voice,  "  but  he  will  not  be  back  yet." 

There  was  a  pause — a  vast  golden  cloud  hung,  like  some 
mountain  boulder  beyond  the  window  and  some  of  its  golden 
light  seemed  to  steal  over  the  white  room. 

"  Is  it  bad  for  you  talking  to  me?  "  at  last  he  said,  gruffly, 
"  ought  I  to  go  away  ?  " 

Suddenly  she  clutched  his  strong  brown  hand  with  her  thin 


SCAW  HOUSE  109 

wasted  fingers  with  so  convulsive  a  grasp  that  his  Heart  began 
to  beat  furiously. 

"  No — don't  go — not  until  it  is  time  for  your  father  to  come 
back.  Isn't  it  strange  that  after  all  these  years  this  is  the 
first  time  that  we  should  have  a  talk.  Oh!  so  many  times 
I've  wanted  you  to  come — and  when  you  did  come — when 
you  were  very  little — you  were  always  so  frightened  that  you 
would  not  let  me  touch  you — " 

"  They  frightened  me.  .  .  ." 

"  Yes — I  know — but  now,  at  last,  we've  got  a  little  time 
together — and  we  must  talk — quickly.  I  want  you  to  tell 
me  everything — everything — everything.  .  .  .  First,  let  me 
look  at  you.  .  .  ." 

She  took  his  head  between  her  pale,  slender  hands  and 
looked  at  him.  "  Oh,  you  are  like  him ! — your  father — ^won- 
derfully like."  She  lay  back  on  the  pillows  with  a  little 
sigh.     "  You  are  very  strong." 

"  Yes,  I  am  going  to  be  strong  for  you  now.  I  am  going 
to  look  after  you.     They  shan't  keep  us  apart  any  more." 

"  Oh,  Peter,  dear,"  she  shook  her  head  almost  gaily  at 
him.     "  It's  too  late." 

"Too  late?" 

"  Yes,  I'm  dying — at  last  it's  come,  after  all  these  years 
when  I've  wanted  it  so  much.  But  now  I'm  not  sorry — now 
that  we've  had  this  talk — at  last.  Oh!  Peter  dear,  I've 
'wanted  you  so  dreadfully  and  I  was  never  strong  enough  to 
say  that  you  must  come  .  .  .  and  they  said  that  you  were 
noisy  and  it  would  be  bad  for  me.  But  I  believe  if  you  had 
come  earlier  I  might  have  lived." 

"  But  you  mustn't  die — ^you  mustn't  die — I'll  see  that  they 
have  another  doctor  from  Truro.  This  silly  old  fool  here 
doesn't  know  what  he's  about — I'll  go  myself." 

"  Oh !  how  strong  your  hands  are,  Peter !  How  splendidly 
strong!  No,  no  one  can  do  anything  now.  But  oh!  I  am 
happy  at  last  .  .  ."  She  stroked  his  cheek  with  her  hand — 
the  golden  light  from  the  great  cloud  filled  the  room  and 
touched  the  white  vases  with  its  colour. 

"  But  quick,  quick — tell  me.  There  are  so  many  things 
and  there  is  so  little  time.  I  want  to  know  everything — • 
your  school?     Here  when  you  were  little? — all  of  it — " 

But  he  was  gripping  the  bed  with  his  hands,  his  chest  wai 


110  FORTITUDE 

heaving.  Suddenly  he  broke  down  and  burying  his  head 
in  the  bed-clothes  began  to  sob  as  though  his  heart  would 
break.  "Oh!  now  .  .  .  after  all  this  time  .  .  .  you've 
wanted  uie  .  .  .  and  I  ne\-er  came  .  .  .  and  now  to  find 
you  like  this !  " 

She  stroked  his  hair  very  softly  and  waited  until  the  sobs 
ceased.     He  sat  up  and  fiercely  brushed  his  eyes. 

"  I  won't  be  a  fool — any  more.  It  shan't  be  too  late. 
I'll  make  you  li\-e.     We'll  never  leave  one  another  again." 

"  Dear  boy,  it  can't  be  like  that.  Think  how  splendid 
it  is  that  we  have  had  this  time  now.  Think  what  it  might 
have  been  if  I  had  gone  and  m'c  had  never  known  one  an- 
other. But  tell  me,  Peter,  what  are  you  going  to  do  with 
your  life  afterwards — what  are  you  going  to  be.''  " 

"  I  want  to  write  books  " — he  stared  at  the  golden  cloud 
— "  to  be  a  novelist.  I  daresay  I  can't — I  don't  know — ■ 
but  I'd  rather  do  that  than  anything.  .  .  .  Father  wants  me 
to  be  a  solicitor.  I'm  with  Aitehinson  now — I  shall  never  be 
a  good  one." 

Then  he  turned  almost  fiercely  away  from  the  window. 

"  But  never  mind  about  me,  mother.  It's  you  I  want  to 
hear  about.  I'm  going  to  take  this  on  now.  It's  my  re- 
sponsibility.    I  want  to  know  about  you." 

"  There's  nothing  to  know,  dear.  I've  been  ill  for  a 
great  many  years  now.  It's  more  nerves  than  anything,  I 
suppose.  I  think  I've  never  had  the  courage  to  stand  up 
against  it — a  stronger  woman  would  have  got  the  better  of 
it,  I  expect.  But  I  wasn't  always  like  this,"  she  added 
laughing  a  little  far  away  ghost  of  a  laugh — "  Go  and  look 
in  that  drawer — there,  in  that  cupboard — amongst  my  hand- 
kerchiefs— there  where  those  old  fans  are — you'll  find  some 
old  programmes  there — Those  old  yellow  papers.  .  .  ." 

He  brought  them  to  her,  three  old  yellow  programmes  of 
a  "  Concert  Given  at  the  Town  Hall,  Truro."  "  There,  do 
you  see?  Miss  Minnie  Trenowth,  In  the  Gloaming — 
There,  I  sang  in  those  days.  Oh !  Truro  was  fun  when  I 
was  a  girl !  There  was  always  something  going  on !  You 
see  I  wasn't  always  on  my  back !  " 

He  crushed  the  papers  in  his  hand. 

"  But,  mother!  If  you  were  like  that  then — what's  made 
you  like  this  now  ?  " 


SCAW  HOUSE  111 

"  It's  nerves,  dear — I've  been  stupid  about  it." 

"  And  father,  how  has  he  treated  you  these  years  ?  " 

"  Your  father  has  always  been  very  kind." 

"  Mother,  tell  me  the  truth !  I  must  know.  Has  he 
been  kind  to  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  dear — always." 

But  her  voice  was  very  faint  and  that  look  that  Peter  had 
noticed  before  was  again  in  her  eyes. 

"  Mother — you  must  tell  me.     That's  not  true." 

"  Yes,  Peter.  He's  done  his  best.  I  have  been  annoy- 
ing, sometimes — foolish." 

"  Mother,  I  know.  I  know  because  I  know  father  and 
I  know  myself.  I'm  like  him — I've  just  found  it  out.  I've 
got  those  same  things  in  me,  and  they'll  do  for  me  if  I  don't 
get  the  better  of  them.  Grandfather  told  me — he  was  the 
same.     All  the  Westcotts — " 

He  bent  over  the  bed  and  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it. 

"  Mother,  dear — I  know — father  has  been  frightening 
you  all  this  time — terrifying  you.  And  you  were  all  alone. 
If  only  I  had  been  there — ^if  only  there  had  been  some 
one — " 

Her  voice  was  very  faint.  "  Yes  ...  he  has  frightened 
me  all  these  years.  At  first  I  used  to  think  that  he  didn't 
mean  it.  I  was  a  bright,  merry  sort  of  a  girl  then — careless 
and  knowing  nothing  about  the  world.  And  then  I  began 
to  see — that  he  liked  it — that  it  gave  him  pleasure  to  have 
something  there  that  he  could  hurt.  And  then  I  began  to 
be  frightened.  It  was  very  lonely  here  for  a  girl  who  had 
had  a  gay  time,  and  he  usen't  to  like  my  going  into  Truro 
— and  at  last  he  even  stopped  my  seeing  people  in  Treliss. 
And  then  I  began  to  be  really  frightened — and  used  to  wake 
in  the  night  and  see  him  standing  by  the  door  watching  me. 
Then  I  thought  that  when  you  were  born  that  would  draw 
us  together,  but  it  didn't,  and  I  was  always  ill  after  that. 
He  would  do  things — Oh !  "  her  hand  pressed  her  mouth. 
"  Peter,  dear,  you  mustn't  think  about  it,  only  when  I  am 
dead  I  don't  want  you  to  think  that  I  was  quite  a  fool — if 
they  tell  you  so.  I  don't  want  you  to  think  it  was  all  his 
fault  either  because  it  wasn't — I  was  silly  and  didn't  under- 
stand sometimes  .  .  .  but  it's  killed  me,  that  dreadful  wait- 
ing for  him  to  do  something,  I  never  knew  what  it  would 


112  FORTITUDE 

be,  and  sometimes  it  was  nothing  .  .  .  but  I  knew  that  he 
liked  to  hurt  .  .  .  and  it  was  the  expectation." 

In  that  white  room,  now  flaming  with  the  fires  of  the 
setting  sun,  Peter  caught  his  mother  to  his  breast  and  held 
her  there  and  her  white  hands  clutched  his  knees. 

Then  his  eyes  softened  and  he  turned  to  her  and  arranged 
her  head  on  the  pillow  and  drew  the  sheets  closely  about  her. 

"  I  must  go  now.  It  has  been  bad  for  you  this  talking, 
but  it  had  to  be.  I'm  never,  never  going  to  leave  you  again 
— ^you  shall  not  be  alone  any  more — " 

"Oh,  Peter!  I'm  so  happy!  I  have  never  been  so 
happy  .  .  .  but  it  all  comes  of  being  a  coward.  If  I  had 
only  been  brave — never  be  afraid  of  anybody  or  einything. 
Promise  me,  Peter — " 

"  Except  of  myself,"  he  answered,  kissing  her. 

"  Kiss  me  again." 

"And  again  .  .  ." 

"  To-morrow  .  .  ."  he  looked  back  at  her,  smiling.  He 
saw  her,  for  an  instant,  as  he  left  the  room,  with  her  cheek 
against  the  pillow  and  her  black  hair  like  a  cloud  about  her; 
the  twilight  was  already  in  the  room. 

An  hour  later,  as  he  stood  in  the  dining-room,  the  door 
opened  and  his  father  came  in. 

"  You  have  been  with  your  mother  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  You  have  done  her  much  harm.     She  is  dying." 

"  I  know  everything,"  Peter  answered,  looking  him  in 
the  face. 

IV 

He  would  never,  until  his  own  end  had  come,  forget  that 
evening.  The  golden  sunset  gave  place  to  a  cold  and  windy 
night,  and  the  dark  clouds  rolled  up  along  the  grey  sky, 
hiding  and  then  revealing  the  thin  and  pallid  moon. 

Peter  stayed  there  in  the  dining-room,  waiting.  His 
grandfather  slept  in  his  chair.  Once  his  aunt  came  crying 
into  the  room  and  wandered  aimlessly  about. 

"  Aunt,  how  is  she?  " 

"Oh,  dear!  oh,  dear!  Whatever  shall  I  do?  She  is 
going  .  .  .  she  is  going  ...  I  can  do  nothing !  " 

Her  thin  body  in  the  dusk  flitted  like  a  ghost  about  the 


SCAW  HOUSE  ai3 

room  and  then  she  was  gone.  The  doctor's  pony  cart  came 
rattling  up  to  the  door.  The  fussy  little  man  got  out  and 
stamped  in  the  hall,  and  then  disappeared  upstairs.  There 
was  a  long  pause  during  which  there  was  no  sound. 

Then  the  door  was  opened  and  his  aunt  was  there. 

"  You  must  come  at  once  .  .  .  she  wants  you." 

The  doctor,  his  father,  and  Mrs.  Trussit  were  there  in  the 
room,  but  he  was  only  conscious  of  the  great  white  bed  with 
the  candles  about  it  and  the  white  vases,  like  eyes,  watching 
him. 

As  he  entered  the  room  there  was  a  faint  cry,  "  Peter," 
He  had  crossed  to  her,  and  her  arms  were  about  his  shoulders 
and  her  mouth  was  pressed  against  his;  she  fell  back,  with 
a  little  sigh,  dead. 


In  the  darkened  dining-room,  later,  his  father  stood  in 
the  doorway  with  a  candle  in  his  hand,  and  above  it  his  white 
face  and  short  black  hair  shone  as  though  carved  from 
marble. 

Peter  came  from  the  window  towards  him.  His  father 
said :  "  You  killed  her  by  going  to  her." 

Peter  answered:  "All  these  years  you  have  been  killing 
herl" 


CHAPTER  IX 
THE  THREE  WESTCOTTS 


THE  day  crept,  strangely  and  mysteriously,  to  its  close. 
Peter,  dulled  by  misery,  sat  opposite  his  grandfather 
in  the  dining-room  without  moving,  conscious  of  the  heavy 
twilight  that  the  dark  blinds  flung  about  the  room,  feeling 
the  silence  that  was  only  accentuated  by  the  old  man's  un- 
easy "  clack-clack "  in  his  sleep  and  the  clock's  regular 
ticking.  The  unhappiness  that  had  been  gradually  growing 
about  him  since  his  last  term  at  Dawson's,  was  now  all  about 
him  with  the  strength  and  horrible  appearance  of  some 
unholy  giant.  It  was  indeed  with  some  consciousness  of 
Things  that  were  flinging  their  shadows  on  the  horizon 
and  were  not  as  yet  fully  visible  to  him  that  he  sat  there. 
That  evening  at  Stephen's  farm,  realised  only  faintly  at 
the  time,  hung  before  him  now  as  a  vivid  induction  or 
prologue  to  the  later  terrors.  He  was  doomed — so  he  felt 
in  that  darkened  and  mysterious  room — to  a  terrible  time  and 
horrors  were  creeping  upon  him  from  every  side.  "  Clack- 
clack  "  went  his  grandfather  beneath  the  rugs,  as  the  cactus 
plant  rattled  in  the  window  and  the  silence  through  the 
stairs  and  passages  of  the  house  crept  in  folds  about  the 
room. 

Peter  shivered;  the  coals  fell  from  a  dull  gold  into  grey 
and  crumbling  ashes.  He  shut  everytliing  in  the  surround- 
ing world  from  his  mind  and  thought  of  his  dead  mother. 
There  indeed  there  was  strangeness  enough,  for  it  seemed 
now  that  that  wonderful  afternoon  had  filled  also  all  the 
earlier  years  of  his  life.  It  seemed  to  him  now  that  there  had 
never  been  a  time  when  he  had  not  known  her  and  talked 
•with  her,  and  yet  with  this  was  also  a  consciousness  of  all 
the  joys  that  he  had  missed  because  he  had  not  known  her 
before.  As  he  thought  of  it  the  hard  irretrievable  fact  of 
those  earlier  empty  years  struck  him  physically  with  a  sharp 
agonising  pain — toothache,  and  no  possible  way  of  healing  it. 

114 


SCAW  HOUSE  115 

The  irony  of  her  proximity,  of  her  desire  for  him  as  he,  all 
unwittingly,  had  in  reality  desired  her,  hit  him  like  a  blow. 
The  picture  of  her  waiting,  told  that  he  did  not  wish  to 
come,  looking  so  sadly  and  lonely  in  that  white  room,  whilst 
he,  on  the  other  side  of  that  door,  had  not  the  courage  to 
burst  through  those  others  and  go  to  her,  broke  suddenly 
the  hard  dry  passivity  that  had  held  him  during  so  many 
weeks. 

He  was  very  young,  he  "was  very  tired,  he  was  very  lonely- 
He  sobbed  with  his  hands  pressed  against  his  eyes. 

Then  his  tears  were  quickly  dried.  There  was  this  other 
thing  to  be  considered — his  father.  He  hated  his  father. 
He  was  terrified,  as  he  sat  there,  at  the  fury  with  which  he 
hated  him.  The  sudden  assurance  of  his  hatred  reminded 
him  of  the  thing  that  his  grandfather  had  said  about  the 
Westcotts  .  .  .  was  that  true?  and  was  this  intensity  of 
emotion  that  filled  all  the  veins  in  his  body  a  sign  that  he 
too  was  a  Westcott.'*  and  were  his  father  and  grandfather 
mirrors  of  his  own  future  years?  .  .  .  He  did  not  know. 
That  was  another  question.  .  .  . 

He  wondered  what  they  were  about  in  the  room  where  his 
mother  lay  and  it  was  curious  that  the  house  could  remain 
silent  during  so  many  long  hours.  It  seemed  held  by  the 
command  of  some  strong  power,  and  his  mind,  overstrained 
and  abnormal,  waited  for  some  outbreak  of  noise — many 
noises,  clattering,  banging,  whistling  through  the  house. 
But  his  grandfather  slept  on,  no  step  was  on  the  stairs,  the 
room  was  very  dark  and  evening  fell  beyond  the  long  win- 
dows and  over  the  sea. 

His  youth  made  of  a  day  eternity — there  was  no  end  nor 
term  to  his  love,  to  his  hatred,  to  his  loneliness,  to  his 
utter  misery  .  .  .  and  also  he  was  afraid.  He  would 
have  given  his  world  for  Stephen,  but  Stephen  was  already 
off  on  his  travels. 

Very  softly  and  stealthily  the  door  opened  and,  holding  a 
quivering  candle,  with  her  finger  to  her  mouth,  there  appeared 
his  aunt.  He  looked  at  her  coldly  as  she  came  across  the 
room  towards  him.  He  had  never  felt  any  affection  for 
her  because  she  had  always  seemed  to  him  weak  and  useless 
— a  frightened,  miserable,  vacillating,  negative  person — even 
when  he  had  been  a  very  small  boy  he  had  despised  her. 


116  FORTITUDE 

Her  eyes  were  red  and  swollen  with  crying,  her  grey  and 
scanty  hair  had  fallen  about  her  collar,  her  old  black  blouse 
was  unbuttoned  at  the  top  showing  her  bony  neck  and  her 
thin  crooked  hands  were  trembling  in  the  candle-light.  Her 
eyes  were  large  and  frightened  and  her  back  was  bent  as 
though  she  was  cowering  from  a  blow.  She  had  never  taken 
very  much  notice  of  her  nephew — of  late  she  had  been  afraid 
of  him;  he  was  surprised  now  that  she  should  come  to  speak 
to  him. 

"  Peter,"  she  said  in  a  whisper,  looking  back  over  her 
shoulder  at  the  door. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  staring  at  her. 

"  Oh,  Peter !  "  she  said  again  and  began  to  cry — a  whim- 
pering noise  and  her  hands  shaking  so  that  the  candle  rocked 
in  its  stick. 

"  Well,"  he  said  more  softly,  "  you'd  better  put  that 
candle  down." 

She  put  it  on  the  table  and  then  stood  beside  him, 
crying  pitifully,  jerking  out  little  sentences — "  I  can't  bear 
it  ...  I  don't  know  what  to  do  ...  I  can't  bear  it." 

He  got  up  from  his  chair  and  made  her  sit  down  on  it 
and  then  he  stood  by  her  and  waited  until  she  should  re- 
cover a  little.  He  felt  suddenly  strangely  tender  towards 
her;  she  was  his  mother's  sister,  she  had  known  his  mother 
all  her  life  and  perhaps  in  her  weak  silly  way  she  had  loved 
her. 

"  No,  aunt,  don't  cry.  ...  It  will  be  all  right.  I  too  am 
very  unhappy.  I  have  missed  so  much.  If  I  had  only 
known  earlier — " 

The  poor  woman  flung  little  distracted  glances  at  the  old 
man  asleep  on  the  other  side  of  the  fire-place — 

"  Oh,  dear,  I  had  to  come  and  talk  to  some  one  ...  I 
was  so  frightened  upstairs.  Your  father's  there  with  your 
mother.  He  sits  looking  at  her  .  .  .  and  she  was  always 
so  quiet  and  good  and  never  did  him  any  harm  or  indeed 
any  one  .  .  .  and  now  he  sits  looking  at  her — but  she's 
happy  now — he  will  be  coming  downstairs  at  any  moment 
and  I  am  afraid  of  what  he'll  do  if  he  sees  me  talking  to 
you  like  this.  But  I  feel  as  though  I  must  talk  a  little 
.  .  .  it's  so  quiet." 

"  It's  all  right,  aunt     There's  no  one  to  be  frightened 


SCAW  HOUSE  117 

of.     I  am  very  unhappy  too.     I'd  like  to  talk  about  her  to 
you." 

"  No,  no — your  poor  mother — I  mustn't  say  anything. 
They'll  be  down  upon  me  if  I  say  anything.  They're  very 
sharp.     He's  sitting  up  with  her  now." 

Peter  drew  another  chair  up  close  to  her  and  took  her 
thin  hand  in  his.  She  allowed  him  to  do  what  he  would 
and  seemed  to  have  no  active  knowledge  of  her  surroundings. 

"  We'll  talk  about  her,"  he  said,  "  often.  You  shall  tell 
me  all  about  her  early  life.     I  want  to  know  everything." 

"  Oh,  no.  I'm  going  away.  Directly  after  the  funeral. 
Directly  after  the  funeral  I'm  going  away." 

Suddenly  this  frightened  him.  Was  he  to  be  left  here 
entirely  alone  with  his  father  and  grandfather? 

"  You're  going  away  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Oh,  yes — ^your  Uncle  Jeremy  will  come  for  the  funeral. 
I  shall  go  away  with  him  afterwards.  I  don't  like  your 
Aunt  Agatha,  but  they  always  said  I  could  come  to  them 
when  your  mother  died.  I  don't  like  your  Aimt  Agatha  but 
she  means  to  be  kind.  Oh!  I  couldn't  stay  here  after  all 
that  has  happened.  I  was  only  staying  for  your  mother's 
sake  and  I'm  sure  I've  never  gone  to  bed  without  wondering 
what  would  happen  before  the  morning — Oh,  yes,  your 
Uncle  Jeremy's  coming  and  I  shall  go  away  with  him  after 
the  funeral.  I  don't  like  your  Aunt  Agatha  but  I  couldn't 
stay  after  all  that  has  happened." 

AH  this  was  said  in  a  hurried  frightened  whisper.  The 
poor  lady  shook  from  head  to  foot  and  the  little  bracelets 
on  her  trembling  wrists  jangled  together. 

"  Then  I  shall  be  all  alone  here,"  Peter  said  suddenly, 
staring  at  the  candle  that  was  guttering  in  the  breeze  that 
came  from  behind  the  heavy  blinds. 

"  Oh,  dear,"  said  his  aunt,  "  I'm  sure  Uncle  Jeremy  will 
be  kind  if  you  have  to  leave  here,  you  know." 

"  Why  should  I  have  to  leave  here  ?  "  asked  Peter. 

His  aunt  sunk  her  voice  very  low  indeed — so  low  that  it 
seemed  to  come  from  the  heart  of  the  cactus  plant  by  the 
window. 

"  He  hasn't  got  your  mother  now,  you  know.  He'll  want 
to  have  somebody.  ..." 

But  she  said  nothing  more — only  gazed  at  the  old  man 


lid  FORTITUDE 

opposite  her  with  staring  eyes,  and  cried  in  a  little  desolate 
whimper  and  jangled  her  bracelets  until  at  last  Peter  crept 
softly,  miserably  to  bed. 


II 

The  day  of  the  funeral  was  a  day  of  high  wind  and  a 
furious  sea.  The  Westcotts  lived  in  the  parish  of  the  strange 
wild  clergyman  whose  church  looked  over  the  sea;  strange 
and  wild  in  tlie  eyes  of  Treliss  because  he  was  a  giant  in 
size  and  had  a  long  flowing  beard,  because  he  kept  a  perfect 
menagerie  of  animals  in  his  little  house  by  the  church,  and 
because  he  talked  in  such  an  odd  wild  way  about  God  being 
in  the  sea  and  the  earth  rather  than  in  the  hearts  of  the 
TreUss  citizens — all  these  things  odd  enough  and  sometimes, 
early  in  the  morning,  he  might  be  seen,  mother-naked,  going 
down  the  path  to  the  sea  to  bathe,  which  was  hardly  decent 
considering  his  great  size  and  the  immediate  neighbourhood 
of  the  high  road.  To  those  who  remonstrated  he  had  said 
that  he  was  not  ashamed  of  his  body  and  that  God  was  wor- 
shipped the  better  for  there  being  no  clothing  to  keep  the 
wind  away  ...  all  mad  enough,  and  there  were  never  many 
parishioners  in  the  httle  hill  church  of  a  Sunday.  However, 
it  was  in  the  little  windy  churchyard  that  Mrs.  Westcott  was 
buried  and  it  was  up  the  steep  and  stony  road  to  the  little 
church  that  the  hearse  and  its  nodding  plumes,  followed  by 
the  two  old  and  decrepit  hackney  carriages,  slowly  climbed. 

Peter's  impressions  of  the  day  were  vague  and  uncertain. 
There  were  things  that  always  remained  in  his  mcmor}'  but 
strangely  his  general  conviction  was  that  his  mother  had 
had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  The  black  coffin  convcj'cd  noth- 
ing to  him  of  her  presence;  he  saw  her  as  he  had  seen  her 
on  that  day  when  he  had  talked  to  her,  and  now  she  was, 
as  Stephen  was,  somewhere  away.  That  was  his  impression, 
that  she  had  escaped.  .  .  . 

Putting  on  his  black  clothes  in  the  morning  brought  Daw- 
son's back  to  his  mind,  and  especially  Bobby  Galleon  and 
Cards.  He  had  not  thought  of  them  since  the  day  of  his 
return — first  Stephen  and  then  his  mother  had  driven  them 
from  his  mind.  But  now,  with  the  old  school  black  clothing 
upon  him,  be  stood  for  a  long  time  by  liis  window,  wonder- 


SCAW  HOUSE  i         119 

ing,  sorrowfully  enough,  where  they  were  and  what  they 
were  doing,  whether  they  had  forgotten  him,  whether  he 
would  ever  see  them  again.  He  seemed  to  be  surrounded 
by  a  wall  of  loneliness — some  one  was  cutting  everything  off 
from  him.  .  .  .  from  maliciousness !  For  pleasure !  .  .  . 
Oh!  if  one  only  knew  about  that  God! 

Meanwhile  Uncle  Jeremy  and  Aunt  Agatha  had  arrived 
the  night  before.  Uncle  Jeremy  was  big  and  stout  and  he 
wore  clothes  that  were  very  black  and  extremely  bright. 
His  face  was  crimson  in  colour  and  his  eyes,  large  and 
bulging,  wore  a  look  of  perpetual  surprise.  He  was  bald 
and  an  enormous  gold  watch  chain  crossed  his  stomach  like 
a  bridge.  He  had  obviously  never  cared  for  either  of  his 
sisters  and  he  always  shouted  when  he  spoke.  Aunt  Agatha 
was  round  and  fat  and  comfortable,  wore  gold-rimmed  spec- 
tacles and  a  black  silk  dress,  and  obviously  considered  that 
Uncle  Jeremy  had  made  the  world. 

Peter  watched  his  father's  attitude  to  these  visitors.  He 
realised  that  he  had  never  seen  his  father  with  any  stranger 
or  visitor — no  one  came  to  the  house  and  he  had  never  been 
into  the  town  with  his  father.  With  this  realisation  came  a 
knowledge  of  other  things — of  things  half  heard  at  the  office, 
of  half  looks  in  the  street,  of  a  deliberate  avoidance  of  his 
father's  name — the  Westcotts  of  Scaw  House!  There  were 
clouds  about  the  name. 

But  his  father,  in  contact  with  Uncle  Jeremy  and  Aunt 
Agatha,  was  strangely  impressive.  His  square,  thick-set 
body  clothed  in  black — his  dark  eyes,  his  short  stiff  hair, 
his  high  white  forehead,  his  long  beautiful  hands — this  was 
no  ordinary  man,  moving  so  silently  with  a  reserve  that 
seemed  nobly  fitting  on  this  sad  occasion.  The  dark  figure 
filled  the  house,  touching  in  its  restrained  grief,  admirable 
in  its  dignity,  a  fine  spirit  against  the  common  clay  of  Uncle 
Jeremy  and  Aunt  Agatha. 

Mr.  Westcott  was  courteous  but  sparing  of  words — a 
strong  man,  you  would  say,  bowed  down  with  a  grief  that 
demanded,  in  its  intensity,  silence. 

Uncle  Jeremy  hated  and  feared  his  brother-in-law.  His 
hatred  he  concealed  with  difficulty  but  his  fear  was  betrayed 
by  his  loud  and  nervous  laugh.  He  was  obviously  interested 
in  Peter  and  fitared  at  him,  throughout  breakfast,  with  his 


120  FORTITUDE 

large,  surprised  eyes.  Peter  felt  that  this  interest  was  a 
speculation  as  to  his  future  and  it  made  him  uncomfortable 
...  he  hated  his  uncle  but  tlie  black  suit  that  the  stout 
gentleman  wore  on  the  day  of  the  funeral  was  so  black,  so 
tight  and  so  shiny  that  he  was  an  occasion  for  laughter 
rather  than  hatred. 

The  black  coffin  was  brought  down  the  long  stairs,  through 
the  hall  and  into  the  desolate  garden.  The  sight  of  it  roused 
no  emotion  in  Peter — that  was  not  his  mother.  The  two 
aunts,  Uncle  Jeremy  and  his  father  rode  in  the  first  car- 
riage; Peter  and  Mrs.  Trussit  in  the  second.  Mrs.  Trussit's 
bonnet  and  black  silk  dress  were  very  fine  and  she  wept  bit- 
terly throughout  the  journey. 

Peter  only  dismally  wished  that  he  could  arrange  his 
knees  so  that  they  would  not  rub  against  her  black  silk. 
He  did  not  think  of  his  mother  at  all  but  only  of  the  great 
age  of  the  cab,  of  the  furious  wind  that  whistled  about  the 
road,  and  the  roar  that  the  sea,  grey  and  furious  far  below 
them,  flung  against  their  windows. 

He  would  have  liked  to  talk  to  her  but  her  sobbing  seemed 
to  surround  her  with  a  barrier.  It  was  all  inexpressibly 
dreary  with  the  driving  wind,  the  rustling  of  the  black  silk 
dress,  the  jolting  and  clattering  of  the  old  carriage.  But 
he  had  no  desire  to  cry — he  was  too  miserable  for  that. 

On  the  hill  in  the  little  churchyard,  a  tempest  of  wind 
swept  across  the  graves.  From  the  bending  ground  the  cliff 
fell  sheer  to  the  sea  and  behold !  it  was  a  tossing,  furious 
carpet  of  white  and  grey.  The  wind  blew  the  spray  up  to 
the  graveyard  and  stung  the  faces  of  the  mourners  and  in 
the  roar  of  the  waves  it  was  hard  to  hear  the  voice  of  the 
preacher.  It  was  a  picture  that  they  made  out  there  in  the 
graveyard.  Poor  Aunt  Jessie,  trembling  and  shaking,  Mrs. 
Trussit,  stout  and  stiff  with  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes, 
Uncle  Jeremy  with  his  legs  apart,  his  face  redder  than  ever, 
obviously  wishing  the  thing  over.  Aunt  Agatha  concerned 
for  her  clothes  in  the  streaming  wind,  Mr.  Westcott  un- 
moved by  the  storm,  cold,  stern,  of  a  piece  with  the  grey 
stone  at  the  gravehead — all  these  figures  interesting  enough. 
But  towering  above  them  and  dominating  the  scene  was  the 
clergyman — his  great  beard  streaming,  his  surplice  blowing 
behind  him  in  a  cloudy  bis  great  voice  dominating  the  tumult. 


SCAW  HOUSE  121 

to  Peter  he  was  a  part  of  the  day — the  storm,  the  earth,  the 
flying,  scudding  clouds.  All  big  things  there,  and  some- 
where sailing  with  those  clouds,  on  the  storm,  the  spirit  of 
his  mother  .  .  .  that  little  black  coffin  standing,  surely,  for 
nothing  that  mattered. 

But,  strangely  enough,  when  the  black  box  had  been 
lowered,  at  the  sharp  rattling  of  the  sods  upon  the  lid,  his 
sorrow  leapt  to  his  eyes.  Suddenly  the  sense  of  his  loss 
drove  down  upon  him.  The  place,  the  people  were  swept 
away — he  could  hear  her  voice  again,  see  her  thin  white 
hands  ...  he  wanted  her  so  badly  ...  if  he  could  only 
have  his  chance  again  ...  he  could  have  flung  himself  there 
upon  the  coffin,  not  caring  whether  he  lived  or  died  .  .  . 
his  whole  being,  soul  and  body,  ached  for  her.  .  .  . 

He  knew  that  it  was  all  over ;  he  broke  away  from  them  all 
and  he  never,  afterwards,  could  tell  where  it  was  that  he 
wandered  during  the  rest  of  that  day.  At  last,  when  it  was 
dark,  he  crept  back  to  the  house,  utterly,  absolutely  ex- 
hausted in  every  part  of  his  body  .  .  .  worn  out. 


in 

On  the  following  day  Uncle  Jeremy  and  Aunt  Agatha 
departed  and  took  Aunt  Jessie  with  them.  She  had  the  air 
of  being  led  away  into  captivity  and  seemed  to  be  fastened 
to  the  buttons  of  Uncle  Jeremy's  tight  black  suit.  She  said 
nothing  further  to  Peter  and  showed  no  sense  of  having,  at 
any  time,  been  confidential — she  avoided  him,  he  thought. 

He  of  course  returned  to  his  office  and  tried  to  bury  him- 
self in  the  work  that  he  found  there — but  his  attention  wan- 
dered; he  was  overstrung,  excited  abnormally,  so  that  the 
whole  world  stood  to  him  as  a  strange,  unnatural  picture, 
something  seen  dimly  and  in  exaggerated  shapes  through 
coloured  glass.  That  evening  with  Stephen  shone  upon  him 
now  with  all  the  vigour  of  colour  of  a  real  fact  in  a  multi- 
tude of  vague  shadows.  The  reality  of  that  night  was  now 
of  the  utmost  value. 

Meanwhile  there  were  changes  at  Scaw  House.  Mrs. 
Trussit  had  vanished  a  few  days  after  the  funeral,  no  one 
said  anything  about  her  departure  and  Peter  did  not  see  her 
go.     He  was  vaguely  sorry  because  she  represented  in  his 


jl22  FORTITUDE 

memory  all  the  earlier  years,  and  because  her  absence  left 
the  house  even  darker  and  more  gloomy  than  it  had  been 
before.  The  cook,  a  stout  and  slatternly  person,  given, 
Peter  thouglit,  to  excessive  drinking,  shared,  with  a  small 
and  noisy  maid,  the  duties  of  the  house — they  were  most  in- 
efficiently performed. 

But,  with  this  clearing  of  the  platform,  the  hatred  be- 
tween Peter  and  his  father  became  a  definite  and  terrible 
thing.  It  expressed  itself  silently.  At  present  they  very 
rarely  spoke  and  except  on  Sundays  met  only  at  breakfast 
and  in  the  evening.  But  the  air  was  charged  with  the  vio- 
lence of  their  relationship;  the  boy,  growing  in  body  so 
strangely  like  the  man,  expressed  a  sullen  and  dogged  de- 
fiance in  his  every  movement  .  .  .  the  man  watched  him  as 
a  snake  might  watch  the  bird  held  by  its  power.  They 
stood,  as  wrestlers  stand  before  the  moment  for  their  meet- 
ing has  arrived.  The  house,  always  too  large  for  their 
needs,  seemed  now  to  stretch  into  an  infinity  of  echoing 
passages  and  empty  rooms;  the  many  windows  gathered  the 
dust  thick  upon  their  sills.  The  old  grandfather  stayed  in 
his  chair  by  the  fire — only  at  night  he  was  wheeled  out  into 
his  dreary  bedroom  by  the  cook  who,  now,  washed  and  tidied 
him  with  a  vigour  that  called  forth  shrill  screams  and  oatlis 
from  her  victim.  He  hated  this  woman  with  the  most  bitter 
loathing  and  sometimes  frightened  her  with  the  violence  of 
his  curses. 

Christmas  came  and  went  and  there  followed  a  number 
of  those  wonderful  crisp  and  shining  days  that  a  Cornish 
winter  gives  to  its  worshippers.  Treliss  sparkled  and  glit- 
tered— the  stones  of  the  market-place  licld  the  heat  of  the 
sun  as  though  it  had  been  midsummer  and  the  Grey  Tower 
lifted  its  old  head  proudly  to  the  blue  sky — the  sea  was  so 
warm  that  bathing  was  possible  and  in  the  heart  of  the 
brown  fields  there  was  a  whisper  of  early  spring. 

But  all  of  this  touched  Scaw  House  not  at  all.  Grey  and 
hard  in  its  bundle  of  dark  trees  it  stootl  apart  and  refused 
the  sun.  Peter,  in  spite  of  himself,  rejoiced  in  this  brave 
weather.  As  the  days  slipped  past,  curiously  aloof  and  re- 
served though  he  was,  making  no  friends  and  seeking  for 
none,  nevertheless  he  began  to  look  about  liim  and  considered 
the  future. 


SCAW  HOUSE  123 

All  this  had  in  it  the  element  of  suspense,  of  preparation. 
During  these  weeks  one  day  slipped  into  another.  No  in- 
cidents marked  their  preparation — but  up  at  Scaw  House 
they  were  marching  to  no  mean  climax — every  hour  hurried 
the  issue — and  Peter,  meanwhile,  as  February  came  whistling 
and  storming  upon  the  world,  grew,  with  every  chiming  of 
the  town  clock,  more  morose,  more  sullen,  more  silent  .  .  . 
there  were  times  when  he  thought  of  ending  it  all.  An  in- 
stant and  he  would  be  free  of  all  his  troubles — but  after  all 
that  was  the  weakling's  way ;  he  had  not  altogether  forgotten 
those  words  spoken  so  long  ago  by  old  Moses.  ...  So  much 
for  the  pause.  Suddenly,  one  dark  February  afternoon  the 
curtain  was  rung  up  outside  Zachary  Tan's  shop  and  Peter 
was  whirled  into  the  centre  of  the  stage. 

Peter  had  not  seen  Zachary  Tan  for  a  long  time.  He 
had  grown  into  a  morbid  way  of  avoiding  everybody  and 
would  slink  up  side  streets  or  go  round  on  leaving  the  office 
by  the  sea  road.  When  he  did  meet  people  who  had  once 
been  kind  to  him  he  said  as  little  as  possible  to  them  and 
left  them  abruptly. 

But  on  this  afternoon  Zachary  was  not  to  be  denied. 
He  was  standing  at  the  door  of  his  shop  and  shouted  to 
Peter: 

"  Come  away  in,  Mr.  Peter.  I  haven't  see  you  this  long 
time.  There's  an  old  acquaintance  of  yours  inside  and  a 
cup  of  tea  for  you." 

The  wind  was  whistling  up  the  street,  the  first  drops  of 
a  rain  storm  starred  the  pavement,  and  there  was  a  pleasant 
glow  behind  Mr.  Tan's  window-panes.  But  there  was 
something  stronger  yet  that  drove  Peter  into  the  shop.  He 
knew  with  some  strange  knowledge  who  that  old  acquaint- 
ance was  ...  he  felt  no  surprise  when  he  saw  in  the  little 
back  room,  laughing  with  all  his  white  teeth  shining  in  a 
row,  the  stout  and  cheerful  figure  of  Mr.  Emilio  Zanti. 
Peter  was  a  very  different  person  now  from  that  little  boy 
who  had  once  followed  Stephen's  broad  figure  into  that  little 
green  room  and  stared  at  Mr.  Zanti's  cheerful  countenance, 
but  it  all  seemed  a  very  little  time  ago.  Outside  in  the 
shop  there  was  the  same  suit  of  armour — on  the  shelves, 
the  silver  candlesticks,  the  old  coins,  the  little  Indian  images, 
the  pieces  of  tapestry — within  the  little  room  the  same  sense 


124  FORTITUDE 

of  mystery,  the  same  intimate  seclusion  from  the  outer 
world.  .  .  .  On  the  other  occasion  of  seeing  him  Mr.  Zanti 
had  been  dimmed  by  a  small  boy's  wonder.  Now  Peter  was 
old  enough  to  see  him  very  clearly  indeed. 

Mr.  Zanti  seemed  fat  only  because  his  clothes  were  so 
tight.  He  was  bigly  made  and  his  legs  and  arms  were 
round,  bolster  fashion — huge  thighs  and  small  ankles,  thick 
arms  and  slender  wrists.  His  clothes  were  so  tight  that 
they  seemed  in  a  jolly  kind  of  way  to  protest.  "  Oh!  come 
now,  must  you  really  put  us  on  to  anything  quite  so  big? 
We  shall  burst  in  a  minute — we  really  shall." 

The  face  was  large  and  flat  and  shining  like  a  sun,  with 
a  small  nose  like  a  door  knocker  and  a  large  mouth,  the 
very  essence  of  good-humoured  surprise.  The  cheeks  and 
the  chin  were  soft  and  rounded  and  looked  as  though  they 
might  be  very  fat  one  day — a  double  chin  just  peeped 
round  the  corner. 

He  was  a  little  bald  on  the  top  of  his  head  and  round 
this  bald  patch  his  black  hair  clustered  protectingly.  He 
gave  you  the  impression  that  every  part  of  his  body  was 
anxious  that  every  other  part  of  his  body  should  have  a  good 
time.  His  suit  was  a  very  bright  blue  and  his  waistcoat  had 
little  brass  buttons  that  met  a  friend  with  all  the  twinkling 
geniality  of  good  wishes  and  numberless  little  hospitalities. 

He  had  in  his  blue  silk  tie  a  pearl  so  large  and  so  white 
that  sophisticated  citizens  might  have  doubted  that  it  was 
a  pearl  at  all — but  Peter  swallowed  Mr.  Zanti  whole,  pearl 
and  suit  and  all. 

"  Oh !  it  is  ze  little  friend — my  friend — 'ow  are  you, 
young  gentleman.''  It  is  a  real  delight  to  be  with  you 
again." 

Mr.  Zanti  swung  Peter's  hand  up  and  down  as  he  would 
a  pump  handle  and  laughed  as  though  it  were  all  the  best 
joke  in  the  world.  Curiously  enough  Peter  did  not  resent 
this  rapturous  greeting.  It  moved  him  strongly.  It  was 
such  a  long  time  now  since  any  one  had  shown  any  interest 
in  him  or  expressed  any  pleasure  at  the  sight  of  him  that 
he  was  foolishly  moved  by  Mr.  Znnti's  warmth. 

He  blushed  and  stammered  something  but  his  eyes  were 
shining  and  his  lip  trembling. 

Mr.  Zanti  fixed  his  gaze  on  the  boy.     "  Oh  1  but  yoa  have 


SCAW  HOUSE  125^ 

grown — yes,  indeed.  You  were  a  little  slip  before — but  now 
— not  so  'igh  no — not  'igh — but  broad,  strong.  Oh !  ze  arms 
and  legs — ^there's  a  back !  " 

Zachary  interrupted  his  enthusiasm  with  some  general  re- 
mark, and  they  had  a  pleasant  little  tea-party.  Every  now 
and  again  the  shop  bell  tinkled  and  Zachary  went  out  to  at- 
tend to  it,  and  then  Mr.  Zanti  drew  near  to  Peter  as  though 
he  were  going  to  confide  in  him  but  he  never  said  anything, 
only  laughed. 

Once  he  mentioned  Stephen. 

"  You  know  where  he  is .''  "  Peter  broke  in  with  an  eager 
whisper. 

"  Ah,  ha — that  would  be  telling,"  and  Mr.  Zanti  winked 
his  eye. 

Peter's  heart  warmed  under  the  friendliness  of  it  all. 
There  was  very  much  of  the  boy  still  in  him  and  he  began 
to  look  back  upon  the  days  that  he  had  spent  with  no  other 
company  than  his  own  thoughts  as  cold  and  friendless. 
Zachary  Tan  had  been  always  ready  to  receive  him  warmly. 
Why  had  he  passed  him  so  churlishly  by  and  refused  his  out- 
stretched hand.''  But  there  was  more  in  it  than  that.  Mr. 
Zanti  attracted  him  most  compellingly.  The  gaily-dressed 
genial  man  spoke  to  him  of  all  the  glitter  and  adventure  of 
the  outside  world.  Back,  crowding  upon  him,  came  all  those 
adventurous  thoughts  and  desires  that  he  had  known  before 
in  Mr.  Zanti's  company — but  tinged  now  by  that  grey  threat- 
ening background  of  Scaw  House  and  its  melancholy  in- 
habitants !  What  would  he  not  give  to  escape  ?  Perhaps 
Mr.  Zanti!  .  .  .  The  httle  green  room  began  to  extend  its 
narrow  walls  and  to  include  in  its  boundaries  flashing  rivers, 
shining  cities,  wide  and  bounteous  plains.  Beyond  the  shop 
— dark  now  with  its  treasures  mysteriously  gleaming — the 
steep  little  street  held  up  its  lamps  to  be  transformed  into 
yellow  flame,  and  at  its  foot  by  the  wooden  jetty,  as  the 
night  fell,  the  sea  crept  ever  more  secretly  with  its  white 
fingers  gleaming  below  the  shingles  of  the  beach. 

Here  was  wonder  and  glory  enough  with  the  wind  tear- 
ing and  beating  outside  the  windows,  blowing  the  young 
flowers  of  the  lamps  up  and  down  inside  their  glass  houses 
and  screaming  down  the  chimneys  for  sheer  zest  of  life. 
.  .  .  But  here  it  aU  had  its  centre  in  this  little  room  with 


126  FORTITUDE 

Mr.  Emilio  Zanti's  chuckling  for  no  reason  at  all  and  spread- 
ing his  broad  fat  hand  over  Peter  Westcott's  knee. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Peter,  and  'ave  you  been  to  London  in  all 
these  years  .^  Or  perhaps  you  'ave  forgotten  that  you  ever 
wanted  to  go  there  .^  " 

No,  Peter  was  still  of  the  same  mind  but  Treliss  and  a 
few  miles  up  and  down  the  road  were  as  much  of  the  world 
as  he'd  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing — except  for  school  in 
Devonshire — 

"And  you'd  still  go,  my  leetle  friend.^" 

"  Yes — I  want  to  go — I  hate  being  in  an  oflSce  here." 

"  And  what  is  it  zat  you  will  do  when  you  are  there  .^  " 

Suddenly,  in  a  flash,  illuminating  the  little  room,  shining 
over  the  whole  world,  Peter  knew  what  it  was  that  he  would 
do. 

"  I  will  write." 

"  Write  what.?  " 

"  Stories." 

With  that  word  muttered,  his  head  hanging,  his  cheeks 
flushing,  as  though  it  were  something  of  which  he  was  most 
mightily  ashamed,  he  knew  what  it  was  he  had  been  wanting 
all  these  months.  The  desire  had  been  there,  the  impulse 
had  been  there  .  .  .  mw  with  the  spoken  word  the  blind 
faltering  impulse  was  changed  into  definite  certainty. 

Mr.  Zanti  thought  it  a  tremendous  joke.  He  roared, 
shouted  with  riotous  laughter.  "  Oh,  ze  boy — he  will  be 
the  death  of  me — *  I  will  write  stories  ' — Oh  yes,  so  easy, 
so  very  simple.     '  I  will  write  stories  ' — Oh  yes." 

But  Peter  was  very  solemn.  He  did  not  like  his  great 
intention  to  be  laughed  at. 

"  I  mean  it,"  he  said  rather  gruffly. 

"  Oh  yes,  that's  of  course — but  that  is  enough.  Oh  dear, 
yes  .  .  .  well,  my  friend,  I  like  you.  You  are  very  strong, 
you  are  brave  I  can  see — you  have  a  fine  spirit.  One  thing 
you  lack — with  all  you  English  it  is  the  same." 

He  paused  interrogatively  but  Peter  did  not  seem  to  wish 
to  know  what  this  quality  was. 

"  Yes,  it  is  ze  Humour — you  do  not  see  how  funny  life 
is — always — always  funny.  Death,  murder,  robberies,  vio- 
lences— always  funny — you  are.  Oh  !  so  solemn  and  per'aps 
you  will  be  annoyed,  tliink  it  tiresome,  because  I  laugh — " 


SCAW  HOUSE  127 

"  No,"  said  Peter  gravely,  "  I  like  your  laughing." 

"  Ah!  That  is  well."  Suddenly  he  jerked  his  body  for- 
ward and  stared  into  Peter's  face. 

"  Well !  .  .  .  Will  you  come  ?  " 

Peter  hung  back,  his  face  white.  He  was  only  conscious 
that  Zachary,  quiet  and  smihng  in  the  background,  watched 
him  intently. 

"What!  .  .  .  with  you  ...  to  London!" 

"Yes  .  .  .  wiz  me — what  of  your  father.''  Will  he  be 
furious,  hey  ?  " 

"  He  won't  like  it — "  Peter  continued  slowly.  "  But  I 
don't  care.  I'll  leave  him — But  I  should  have  no  money — • 
nothing!  " 

"  An',  no  matter — I  will  take  you  to  London  for  nothing 
and  then — if  you  like  it — ^you  may  work  for  me.  Two 
pounds  a  week — you  would  be  useful." 

"What  should  I  do.?" 

"  I  have  a  bookshop — you  would  look  after  ze  books  and 
also  ze  customers."  This  seemed  to  amuse  Mr.  Zanti  very 
much.  "  Two  pounds  a  week  is  a  lot  of  money  for  ze  work 
— and  you  will  have  time — ho  yes — much  time  for  your 
stories." 

Peter's  eyes  burned.  London — a  bookshop — freedom. 
Oh !  wonderful  world !  His  heart  was  beating  so  that  words 
would  not  come. 

"  Oh !  "  he  murmured.     "  Oh !  " 

"  Ah,  that's  well !  "  Mr.  Zanti  clapped  him  on  the  shoulder. 
"  There  is  no  need  for  you  to  say  now.  On  ze  Wednesday 
in  Easter  week  I  go — before  then  you  will  tell  me.  We  shall 
get  on  together,  I  know  it.  If  you  will  'ave  a  leetle  more 
of  ze  Humour  you  will  be  a  very  pleasant  boy — and  useful 
—Ho,  yes !  " 

To  Peter  then  the  shop  was  not  visible — a  mist  hung 
about  his  eyes.  "  Much  time  for  your  stories  "...  said 
Mr.  Zanti,  and  he  shouted  with  laughter  as  his  big  form 
hung  before  Peter.  The  large  white  hand  with  the  flash- 
ing rings  enclosed  Peter's. 

For  a  moment  the  hands  were  on  his  shoulders  and  in 
his  nostrils  was  the  pungent  scent  of  the  hair-oil  that  Mr. 
Zanti   affected — afterwards   silence. 

Peter  said   farewell  to   Zachary  and  promised  to  come 


128  FORTITUDE 

soon  and  see  him  again.  The  little  bell  tinkled  behind 
him  and  he  was  in  the  street.  The  great  wind  caught  him 
and  blew  him  along  the  cobbles.  The  flying  mountains 
of  cloud  swept  like  galleons  across  the  moor,  and  in  Peter's 
heart  was  overwhelming  triumph  .  .  .  the  lights  of  Lon- 
don lit  the  black  darkness  of  the  high  sea  road. 

IV 

The  doors  of  Scaw  House  clanged  behind  him  and  at 
once  he  was  aware  that  his  father  had  to  be  faced.  Supper 
was  eaten  in  silence.  Peter  watched  his  father  and  his 
grandfather.  Here  were  the  three  of  them  alone.  What 
his  grandfather  was  his  father  would  one  day  be,  what  his 
father  was,  he  .  .  .  yes,  he  must  escape.  He  stared  at 
the  room's  dreary  furniture,  he  listened  to  the  driving  rain 
and  he  was  conscious  that,  from  the  other  side  of  the  ta- 
ble, his  father's  eyes  were  upon  him. 

"  Father,"  he  said,  "  I  want  to  go  away."  His  heart 
was  thumping. 

Mr.  Westcott  got  up  from  his  place  at  the  table  and 
stood,  with  his  legs  a  little  apart,  looking  down  at  his  son. 

"Why.?" 

"  I'm  doing  no  good  here.  That  office  is  no  use  to  me. 
I  shall  never  be  a  solicitor.  I'm  nearly  eighteen  and  I 
shall  never  get  on  here.  I  remember  things  .  .  .  my 
mother  .  .  ."  his  voice  choked. 

His  father  smiled.     "  And  where  do  you  want  to  go  ?  " 

"To  London." 

"  Oh !  and  what  will  you  do  there }  " 

"  I  have  a  friend — he  has  a  bookshop  there.  He  will 
give  me  two  pounds  a  week  at  first  so  that  I  should  be 
quite   independent — " 

"  All  very  nice,"  Mr.  Westcott  was  grave  again.  "  And 
80  you  are  tired  of  Treliss  ?  " 

"  Not  only  Treliss — this  house — everything.     I   hate  it." 

"You  have  no  regret  at  leaving  me?" 

"You  know— father— that  .  .  ." 

"Yes.?" 

Peter  rose  suddenly  from  the  table — they  faced  one  an- 
other. 

"  I  want  yon  to  let  me  go.     You  have  never  cared  in  the 


SCAW  HOUSE  129 

least  for  me  and  you  do  not  want  me  here.  I  shall  go 
mad  if  I  stay  in  this  place.     I  must  go." 

"  Oh,  you  must  go  ?  Well,  that's  plain  enough  at  any 
rate — and  when  do  you  propose  leaving  us  ?  " 

"  After  Easter — the  Wednesday  after  Easter,"  he  said. 
"  Oh,  father,  please.  Give  me  a  chance.  I  can  do  things  in 
London — I  feel  it.     Here  I  shall  never  do  anything." 

Peter  raised  his  eyes  to  his  father's  and  then  dropped 
them.     Mr.  Westcott  senior  was  not  pleasant  to  look  at. 

"  Let  us  have  no  more  of  this — you  will  stay  here  because 
I  wish  it.  I  like  to  have  you  here — father  and  son — 
father  and  son." 

He  placed  his  hand  on  the  boy's  shoulder — "  Never  men- 
tion this  again  for  your  own  sake — ^you  will  stay  here  imtil 
I  wish  you  to  go." 

But  Peter  broke  free. 

"  I  will  go,"  he  shouted — "  I  ivill  go — you  shall  not  keep 
me  here.  I  have  a  right  to  my  freedom — what  have  you 
ever  done  for  me  that  I  should  obey  you?  I  want  to  leave 
you  and  never  see  you  again.  I  .  .  ."  And  then  his 
eyes  fell — his  legs  were  shaking.  His  father  was  watch- 
ing him,  no  movement  in  his  short  thick  body — Peter's  voice 
faltered — "  I  will  go,"  he  said  sullenly,  his  eyes  on  the 
ground. 

His  grandfather  stirred  in  his  sleep.  "Oh,  what  a 
noise,"  he  muttered,  "  with  the  rain  and  all." 

But  Mr.  Westcott  removed  with  a  careful  hand  the  melo- 
drama that  his  young  son  had  flung  about  the  room. 

"  That's  enough  noise,"  he  said,  "  you  will  not  go  to 
London — nor  indeed  anywhere  else — and  for  your  own 
peace  of  mind  I  should  advise  you  not  to  mention  the  sub- 
ject again.  The  hour  is  a  little  early  but  I  recommend  your 
bedroom." 

Peter  went.  He  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot. 
Why?  He  undressed  and  prepared  himself  for  battle. 
Battle  it  was  to  be,  for  the  Wednesday  in  Easter  week  would 
find  him  in  the  London  train — of  that  there  was  to  be  no 
question. 

Meanwhile,  with  the  candle  blown  out,  and  no  moon  across 
the  floor,  it  was  quite  certain  that  courage  would  be  neces- 
sary.    He  was  fighting  more  than  his  father. 


130  FORTITUDE 


He  woke  suddenly.  A  little  wind,  blowing  through  the 
open  door  flickered  the  light  of  a  candle  that  flung  a  dim 
circle  about  the  floor.  Within  the  circle  was  his  father 
— black  clothes  and  white  face,  he  was  looking  with  the 
candle  held  high,  across  the  room  to  the  bed. 

He  drew  back  the  candle  and  closed  the  door  softly  be- 
hind him.  His  feet  made  no  sound  as  they  passed  away 
down  the  passage. 

Peter  lay  quaking,  wide  eyed  in  his  bed,  until  full  morn- 
ing and  time  for  getting  up. 

The  opening,  certainly,  of  a  campaign. 


CHAPTER  X 
SUNLIGHT,  LIMELIGHT,  DAYLIGHT 


EASTER  fell  early  that  year;  the  last  days  of  March 
held  its  festival  and  the  winds  and  rains  of  that  blus- 
tering month  attended  the  birth  of  its  primroses. 

Young  Peter  spent  his  days  in  preparation  for  the  swift 
coming  of  Easter  Wednesday  and  in  varying  moods  of 
exultation,  terror,  industry  and  idleness.  He  did  not  see 
Mr.  Zanti  during  this  period — that  gentleman  was,  he  was 
informed,  away  on  business — and  it  was  characteristic  of 
him  that  he  asked  Zachary  Tan  no  questions  whether  of 
the  mysterious  bookshop,  of  London  generally,  or  of  any 
possible  news  about  Stephen,  the  latter  a  secret  that  he 
was  convinced  the  dark  little  curiosity  shop  somewhere  con- 
tained. 

But  he  had  an  amazing  number  of  things  to  think  about 
and  the  solicitor's  office  was  the  barest  background  for  his 
chasing  thoughts.  He  spoke  to  no  one  of  his  approaching 
freedom — but  the  thought  of  it  hung  in  rich  and  burning 
colour  ever  at  the  back  of  his  thoughts. 

Meanwhile  the  changing  developments  at  Scaw  House 
were  of  a  nature  to  frighten  any  boy  who  was  compelled  to 
share  in  them.  It  could  not  be  denied  that  Mr.  Westcott 
had  altered  very  strangely  since  his  wife's  death.  The 
grim  place  with  its  deserted  garden  had  never  seen  many 
callers  nor  friendly  faces  but  the  man  with  the  milk,  the 
boy  with  the  butcher's  meat,  the  old  postman  with  the  let- 
ters stayed  now  as  brief  a  time  over  their  business  as  might 
be  and  hurried  down  the  grass-grown  paths  with  eager 
haste.  Since  the  departure  of  the  invaluable  Mrs.  Trussit 
a  new  order  reigned — red-faced  Mrs.  Pascoe,  her  dress  un- 
fastened, her  hair  astray,  her  shoes  at  heel,  her  speech 
thick  and  uncertain,  was  queen  of  the  kitchen,  and  indeed 
of  other  things  had  they  but  known  all.  But  to  Peter  there 
was  more  in  this  than  the  arrival  of  Mrs.  Pascoe.  With 
every  day  his  father  was   changing — changing  so  swiftly 

131 


132  FORTITUDE 

that  when  Peter's  mother  had  been  buried  only  a  month, 
that  earlier  Mr.  Westcott,  cold,  stem,  reserved,  terrible, 
seemed  incredible;  he  was  terrible  now  but  with  how  dif- 
ferent a  terror. 

To  Peter  this  new  figure  was  a  thing  of  the  utmost  hor- 
ror. He  had  known  how  to  brace  himself  for  that  other 
authority — there  had,  at  any  rate,  been  consistency  and 
even  a  kind  of  chiselled  magnificence  in  that  stiff  brutality 
— now  there  was  degradation,  crawling  devilry,  things  un- 
mentionable. .  .  . 

This  new  terror  broke  upon  him  at  supper  two  nights 
after  he  had  first  spoken  about  London.  The  meal  had 
not  been  passed,  as  usual,  in  silence.  His  father  had 
talked  strangely  to  himself — his  voice  was  thick,  and  un- 
certain— his  hand  shook  as  he  cut  the  bread.  Mrs.  Pascoe 
had  come,  in  the  middle  of  the  meal,  to  give  food  to  the  old 
grandfather  who  displayed  his  usual  trembling  greed.  She 
stood  with  arms  akimbo,  watching  them  as  tliey  sat  at  ta- 
ble and  smiling,  her  coarse  face  flushed. 

"  Pudding,"  said  Mr.  Westcott. 

"  Ye'll  be  'aving  the  pudding  when  it's  ready,"  says  she. 

"  Damn  "  from  Mr.  Westcott  but  he  sits  still  looking  at 
the  table-cloth  and  his  hand  shaking. 

To  Peter  this  new  thing  was  beyond  all  possibility  hor- 
rible.    This  new  shaking  creature — 

"  I  didn't  kill  her,  you  know,  Peter,"  Mr.  Westcott 
says  quite  smoothly,  when  the  cloth  had  been  cleared  and 
they  are  alone.  And  then  suddenly,  "  Stay  where  you  are 
— I  have  stories  to  tell  you." 

Peter,  white  to  the  lips,  was  held  in  his  place.  He  could 
not  move  or  speak.  Then  during  the  following  two  hours, 
his  father,  without  moving  from  his  place,  poured  forth  a 
stream  of  stories — foul,  filthy,  horrible  beyond  all  telling. 
He  related  them  with  no  joy  or  humour  or  bestial  gloating 
over  their  obscenities — only  with  a  staring  eye  and  his  fin- 
gers twisting  and  untwisting  on  the  table-cloth.  At  last 
Peter,  his  head  hanging,  his  cheeks  flaming,  crept  to  his 
attic. 

At  breakfast  his  fatlier  was  again  that  other  man — 
stern,  immovable,  a  rock — where  was  that  trembling  shadow 
of  the  night  before? 


SCAW  HOUSE  133 

And  Mrs.  Pascoe — once  more  in  her  red-faced  way,  sub- 
missive— in  her  place. 

The  most  abiding  impression  with  Peter,  thinking  of  it 
afterwards  in  the  dark  lanes  that  run  towards  the  sea,  when 
the  evening  was  creeping  along  the  hill,  was  of  a  fiery  eye 
gleaming  from  old  grandfather  Westcott's  pile  of  rugs. 
Was  it  imagined  or  was  there  indeed  a  triumph  there — a 
triumph  that  no  age  nor  weakness  could  obscure? 

And  from  the  induction  of  that  first  terrible  evening  Peter 
stepped  into  a  blind  terror  that  gave  the  promised  deliver- 
ance of  that  approaching  Easter  Wednesday  an  air  of  blind 
necessity.  Also  about  the  house  the  dust  and  neglect  crept 
and  increased  as  though  it  had  been,  in  its  menace  and  evil 
omen,  a  veritable  beast  of  prey.  Doors  were  off  their 
hinges,  windows  screamed  to  their  clanging  shutters,  the 
grime  lay,  like  sand,  about  the  sills  and  corners  of  the 
rooms.  At  night  the  house  was  astir  with  sound  but  with 
no  human  voices. 


But  it  was  only  at  night  that  Terror  crept  from  its  cup- 
board and  leapt  on  to  Peter's  shoulders.  He  defied  it  even 
then  with  set  lips  and  the  beginning  of  a  conception  of  the 
duties  that  Courage  demands  of  its  worshippers.  He  would 
fight  it,  let  it  develop  as  it  would — but,  during  these  weeks, 
in  the  sunlight,  he  thought  nothing  of  it  at  all,  but  only 
with  eager  eyes  watched  his  father. 

His  reading  had,  in  these  latter  years,  been  slender 
enough.  It  was  seldom  that  he  had  any  money,  there  was 
no  circulating  library  in  Treliss  at  that  time  and  he  knew 
no  one  who  could  lend  him  books.  He  fell  back,  perforce, 
on  the  few  that  he  had  and  especially  on  the  three  "  Henry 
Galleons."  But  he  had  in  his  head — and  he  had  known  it 
without  putting  it  into  words,  for  a  very  long  time — "  The 
Thousand  and  One  Nights  of  Peter  Westcott,  Esq." — 
stories  that  would  go  on  night  after  night  before  he  went 
to  sleep,  stories  that  were  concerned  with  enormous  families 
whose  genealogies  had  to  be  worked  out  on  paper  (here  was 
incipient  Realism) — or  again,  stories  concerning  Treasure 
and  Masses  of  it — banks  of  diamonds,  mountains  of  pearls, 
columns   of   rubies,   white   marble   temples,  processions   of 


134  FORTITUDE 

white  elephants,  cloth  of  gold  (here  was  incipient  Ro- 
mance). Never,  be  it  noticed,  at  this  time,  incipient  Hu- 
mour; life  had  been  too  heavy  a  thing  for  that. 

But  these  stories,  formerly  racing  through  his  brain  be- 
cause they  must,  because  indeed  they  were  there  against  his 
own  will  or  any  one  else's,  had  now  a  most  definite  place 
and  purpose  in  their  existence.  They  were  there  now  be- 
cause they  were  to  be  trained,  to  be  educated,  to  be  devel- 
oped, until  they  were  fit  to  appear  in  public.  He  had, 
even  in  these  early  days,  no  false  idea  of  the  agonies  and 
tortures  of  this  gift  of  his.  Was  it  not  in  "  Henry  Les- 
singham".^  .  .  .  "and  so  with  this  task  before  him  he 
knew  that  words  were  of  many  orders  and  regiments  and 
armies,  and  those  that  were  hard  of  purchase  and  difficult 
of  discipline  were  the  possessions  of  value,  for  nothing  that 
is  light  and  easy  in  its  production  is  of  any  duration  or 
lasting  merit." 

And  so,  during  these  weeks,  when  he  should  have  at- 
tended to  the  duties  of  a  solicitor  his  mind  was  hunting  far 
away  in  those  forests  where  very  many  had  hunted  before 
him.     And,  behold,  he  was  out  for  Fame.  .  .  . 

Spring  was  blown  across  the  country  by  the  wildest 
storms  that  the  sea-coast  had  known  for  very  many  years. 
For  days  the  seas  rose  against  the  rocks  in  a  cursing  fury 
— the  battle  of  rock  and  wave  gave  pretty  spectacle  to  the 
surrounding  country  and  suddenly  the  warriors,  ha\ing 
proved  the  mettle  of  their  hardihood,  turned  once  again  to 
good  fellowship.  But  the  wind  and  the  rain  had  done  their 
work.  In  the  week  before  Easter,  with  the  first  broaden- 
ing sweep  of  the  sun  across  the  rich  brown  earth  and  down 
into  the  depths  of  the  twisting  lanes  the  spring  was  there 
— there  in  the  sweet  smell  of  the  roots  as  they  stirred  to- 
wards the  light,  there  in  the  watery  gleam  of  the  grass  as 
it  caught  diamonds  from  the  sun,  but  there,  above  all,  in 
the  primrose  clump  hidden  in  the  clefts  of  the  little  Cornish 
woods — so  with  a  cry  of  delight  Spring  had  leapt  from  the 
shoulders  of  that  roaring  wind  and  danced  across  the  Cor- 
nish  hills. 

On  Good  Friday  there  was  an  incident.  Peter  was  free 
of  the  office  for  the  day  and  had  walked  towards  Truro. 
There  was  a  little  hill  that  stood  above  the  town.  It  was 
marked  by  a  tree  clump  black  against  the  blue  sky — at  its 


SCAW  HOUSE  135 

side  was  a  chalk  pit,  naked  white — beyond  was  Truro  hud- 
dled, with  the  Fal  a  silver  ribbon  in  the  sun.  Peter  stood 
and  watched  and  sat  down  because  he  liked  the  view.  He 
had  walked  a  very  long  way  and  was  tired  and  it  was  an 
afternoon  as  hot  as  Summer. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  cry :  "  Help,  please — oh — help  to 
get  Crumpet." 

He  looked  up  and  saw  standing  in  front  of  him  a  little 
girl  in  a  black  hat  and  a  short  black  frock — she  had  red 
hair  that  the  sun  was  transforming  into  gold.  Her  face 
was  white  with  terror,  and  tears  were  making  muddy  marks 
on  it  and  her  hands  were  black  with  dirt.  She  was  a  very 
little  girl.  She  appealed  to  him  between  her  sobs,  and  he 
understood  that  Crumpet  was  a  dog,  that  it  had  fallen  some 
way  down  the  chalk-pit  and  that  "  Miss  Jackson  was  read- 
ing her  Bible  under  a  tree." 

He  jumped  up  immediately  and  went  to  find  Crumpet. 
A  little  way  down  the  chalk-pit  a  fox-terrier  puppy  was 
balancing  its  fat  body  on  a  ledge  of  chalk  and  looking 
piteously  up  and  down.  Peter  clambered  down,  caught  the 
little  struggling  animal  in  his  arms,  and  restored  it  to  its 
mistress.  And  now  followed  an  immense  deal  of  kissing 
and  embracing.  The  dog  was  buried  in  red  hair  and  only 
once  and  again  a  wriggling  paw  might  be  observed — also 
these  exclamations — "  Oh,  the  umpty-rumpty — was  it  nearly 
falling  down  the  great  horrid  pit,  the  darling — oh,  the  lit- 
tle darling,  and  was  it  scratched,  the  pet?  But  it  was  a 
wicked  little  dog — yes,  it  was,  to  go  down  that  nasty  place 
when  it  was  told  not  to  " — more  murmurings,  and  then  the 
back  was  straightened,  the  red,  gold  hair  flung  back,  and  a 
flushed  face  turned  to  the  rather  awkward  Peter  who  stood 
at  attention. 

"  Thank  you — ^thanks,  most  awfully — oh,  you  darling  " 
(this  to  the  puppy).  "  You  see.  Miss  Jackson  was  reading 
her  Bible  aloud  to  herself,  and  I  can't  stand  that,  neither 
can  Crumpet,  and  she  always  forgets  all  about  us,  and  so 
we  go  away  by  ourselves — and  reading  the  Bible  makes 
her  sleep — she's  asleep  now — and  then  Crumpet  wouldn't 
stay  at  heel  although  I  was  telling  him  ever  so  hard,  and  he 
would  go  over  the  cliff — and  if  you  hadn't  been  there  .  .  ." 
at  the  thought  of  the  awful  disaster  the  puppy  was  again 
embraced.     Apparently  Crumpet  was  no  sentimentalist,  and 


1S6  FORTITUDE 

had  had  enough  of  feminine  emotion — he  wriggled  out  of 
his  mistress'  arms,  flopped  to  the  ground,  shook  himself, 
and,  advancing  to  Peter,  smelt  his  boots. 

"  He  likes  you.  I'm  so  glad — he  only  does  that  to  peo- 
ple he  likes,  and  he's  very  particular."  The  small  girl 
flung  her  hair  back,  smiled  at  Peter,  and  sat  down  on  the 
grass. 

"It  may  be  rather  damp,"  Peter  said,  feeling  very  old  and 
cautious  and  thinking  that  she  really  was  the  oddest  child 
he'd  ever  seen  in  his  life.     "  It's  only  March  you  know." 

"  It's  nothing  to  do  with  months,  it's  whether  it's  rained 
or  not — and  it  hasn't — sit  down  with  me.  Old  Jackson 
won't  be  here  for  ages." 

Peter  sat  down.  The  puppy  was  a  charming  specimen 
of  its  kind — it  had  enormous  ears,  huge  flat  feet,  and  a 
round  fat  body  like  a  very  small  barrel.  It  was  very  fond 
of  Peter,  and  licked  his  cheek  and  his  hands,  and  finally 
dragged  ofl^  his  cap,  imagined  it  a  rabbit,  and  bit  it  with 
a  great  deal  of  savagery  and  good-humour. 

There    followed   conversation. 

"  I  like  you  most  awfully.  I  like  your  neck  and  your 
eyes  and  your  hair — it's  stiff,  like  my  father's.  My  name 
is  Clare  Elizabeth  Rossiter.     \Maat's  yours }  " 

"  Peter  Westcott." 

"  Do  you  live  here  ?  " 

"  No — a  good  long  way  away — by  the  sea." 

"Oh,  I'm  staying  at  Kenwyn — my  uncle  lives  at  Ken- 
wyn,  but  I  live  in  London  with  father  and  mother  and  Aunt 
Grace — it's  nice  here.  I  think  you're  such  a  nice  boy. 
Will  you  come  and  see  father  and  mother  in  London  ?  " 

Peter  smiled.  It  would  not  be  the  thing  for  some  one 
in  a  bookshop  to  go  and  call  on  the  parents  of  any  one 
who  could  afl'ord  Crumpet  and  Miss  Jackson,  but  the 
thought  of  London,  the  very  name  of  it,  sent  his  blood 
tingling  to  his  face. 

"  Perhaps  we  shall  meet,"  he  said.  "I'm  going  to  Lon- 
don soon." 

"  Oh !  are  you  ?  Oh !  How  nice !  Then,  of  course,  yon 
will  come  to  tea.     Every  one  comes  to  tea." 

Crumpet,  tired  of  the  rabbit,  worn  out  with  adventure 
and  peril,  struggled  into  Peter's  lap  and  slumbered  with  one 
ear  lying  back  across  his  eyes.     The  sun  slipped  down  upon 


SCAW  HOUSE  137" 

the  town  and  touched  the  black  cathedral  with  flame,  and 
turned  the  silver  of  the  river  into  burning  gold.  On  the 
bend  of  the  hill  against  the  sky  came  a  black  gaunt  figure. 

"  Miss  Jackson !  "  Clare  Elizabeth  Rossiter  leapt  to  her 
feet,  clutched  Crumpet,  held  him  upside  down,  and  turned 
to  go. 

But  for  an  instant  she  stayed,  and  Peter  was  rewarded 
with  a  very  wonderful  smile. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  were  here — she  generally  sleeps 
longer,  but  perhaps  it  was  New  Testament  to-day,  and 
that's  more  exciting.  It  is  a  pity,  because  there  were  such 
lots  of  things — I  like  you  most  awfully." 

She  gave  him  a  very  dirty  hand,  and  then  her  black 
stockings  vanished  over  the  hill. 

Peter  turned,  through  a  flaming  sunset,  towards  his  home 
.  .  .  the  end  of  the  incident. 

Ill 

But  he  came  home,  on  that  Good  Friday  evening  with 
an  idea  that  that  afternoon  on  the  hill  had  given  him.  It 
was  an  idea  that  came  to  him  from  the  little  piece  of 
superstition  that  he  carried  about  with  him — every  Cornish- 
man  carries  it.  Treliss  was  always  a  place  of  many  cus- 
toms, and,  although  now  these  ceremonies  drag  themselves 
along  with  all  the  mercenary  self-consciousness  that  Amer- 
ica and  cheap  trips  from  Manchester  have  given  to  the 
place,  at  this  stage  of  Peter's  history  they  were  genuine 
and  honest  enough.  To  see  from  the  top  of  the  Grey  Hill, 
the  rising  of  the  sun  on  Easter  morning  was  one  of  them 
— a  charm  that  brought  the  most  infallible  good  luck  until 
next  Easter  Day  came  round  again,  and,  good  for  you,  if 
you  could  watch  that  sunrise  with  the  lad  or  lass  of  your 
choice,  for  to  pass  round  the  Giant's  Finger  as  the  beams 
caught  the  stone  made  the  success  of  your  union  beyond  all 
question.  There  was  risk  about  it,  for  if  mists  veiled  the 
light  or  if  clouds  dimmed  the  rising  then  were  your  pros- 
pects but  gloomy — but  a  fine  Easter  morning  had  decided 
many  a  wedding  in  Treliss. 

Peter  had  known  of  this  for  many  years,  but,  in  earlier 
times,  he  had  not  been  at  liberty,  and  of  late  there  had  been 
other  things  to  think  about.  But  here  was  a  fine  chance! 
Was  he  not  flinging  himself  into  the  world  imder  the  very 


138  FORTITUDE 

hazardous  patronage  of  ^fr.  Zanti  on  Easter  Wednesday, 
and  would  he  not  therefore  need  every  blessing  that  he 
could  get?  And  who  knew,  after  all,  whether  these  things 
were  such  nonsense?  They  were  old  enough,  these  cus- 
toms, and  many  wise  people  believed  in  them.  Moreover, 
one  had  not  been  brought  up  in  the  company  of  Frosted 
Moses  and  Dicky  the  P'ool  without  catching  some  of  their 
fever !  "  There  was  a  little  star  rolling  down  hill  like  a 
button/'  says  Dicky,  with  his  eyes  staring.  .  .  .  Well,  and 
why  not? 

And  indeed  here  was  Peter  at  this  stage  of  things,  a  mad 
bundle  of  contradictions — old  as  a  judge  when  up  against 
the  Realities,  young  as  Crumpet  the  puppy  when  staring  at 
Romance.  Give  him  bread  and  you  have  him  of  cast-iron — 
stern,  cold,  hard  of  muscle,  grim  frown,  stiff  back,  no  smiles. 
Give  him  jam  and  you  have  credulity,  simplicity,  longing 
for  friendship,  tenderness,  devotion  to  a  small  girl  in  a 
black  frock,  a  heart  big  as  the  world.  See  him  on  Good 
Friday  afternoon,  laughing,  eagerly  questioning,  a  boy — 
see  him  on  Good  Friday  night,  grim,  legs  stiff,  eyes  cold  as 
stones,  a  man — no  easy  thing  for  Mrs.  Pascoe's  blowzy 
thunderings  to  conquer,  but  something  vastly  amusing  ap- 
parently to  grandfather  Westcott  to  watch. 

He  discovered  that  the  sun  rose  about  six  o'clock,  and 
therefore  five  o'clock  on  Easter  morning  found  him  shiver- 
ing, in  the  desolate  garden  with  his  nose  pressed  to  the 
little  wooden  gate.  The  High  Road  crossed  the  moor  at 
no  great  distance  from  him,  but  the  faint  grey  light  that 
hung  like  gauze  about  him  was  not  yet  strong  enough  to 
reveal  it.  He  would  hear  them  as  they  passed  and  they 
must  all  go  up  that  road  on  the  way  to  the  hill.  In  the 
garden  there  was  darkness,  and  beyond  it  in  the  high  shadow 
of  the  house  and  the  surrounding  trees,  blackness.  He 
could  smell  the  soil,  and  his  checks  were  wet  with  beads 
of  moisture;  very  faintly  the  recurrent  boom  of  the  sea 
came  through  the  mist,  dimmed  as  though  by  thick  folds 
of  banging  carpet. 

Suddenly  the  dark  trees  by  the  house,  moved  by  a  secret 
wind,  would  shudder.  The  little  black  gate  slowly  revealed 
its  bars  against  the  sky  as  the  grey  shadows  lightened. 
Then  there  were  voices,  coming  through  the  dark  shut  off, 
like  the  sea,  by  the  mist — strange  voices,  not  human,  but 


SCAW  HOUSE  139 

sharing  with  the  soil  and  the  trees  the  mysterious  quality 
of  the  night.  The  voices  passed  up  the  road — silence  and 
then  more  voices. 

Peter  unlatched  the  gate  and  stole  out  to  the  road, 
stumbling  over  the  rough  moorland  path  and  clambering 
across  the  ditch  to  safer  ground.  Figures  were  moving 
like  shadows  and  voices  fell  echoing  and  re-echoing  like 
notes  of  music — this  was  dissociated  from  all  human  feel- 
ing, and  the  mists  curled  up  like  smoke  and  faded  into  the 
air.  Peter,  in  silence,  followed  these  shadows  and  knew 
that  there  were  other  shadows  behind  him.  It  would  not 
take  long  to  climb  the  Grey  Hill — they  would  be  at  the 
top  by  half-past  five. 

There  was  a  voice  in  his  ear : 

"  Hallo !  You — ^Westcott !  Why,  who  would  have 
thought  it.?" 

He  turned  round  and  found  at  his  side  the  peaked  face 
of  Willie  DaiFoU,  now  a  young  man  of  eighteen,  with  an 
affection  for  bright  ties  and  socks,  once  the  small  child 
who  had  fought  with  Peter  at  old  Parlow's  years  ago. 
Peter  had  not  seen  very  much  of  him  during  those  years. 
They  had  met  in  the  streets  of  Treliss,  had  spoken  a 
word  or  two,  but  no  friendship  or  intimacy.  But  this 
early  hour,  this  mysterious  dawn,  bred  confidence,  and  Peter 
having  grown,  under  the  approaching  glitter  of  London, 
more  human,  during  the  last  few  weeks  than  he  had  been 
in  all  his  life  before,  was  glad  to  talk  to  him. 

"  Oh,  I've  often  wanted  to  go,"  he  said.  "  It  brings 
good  luck,  you  know." 

"  Well,  fancy  your  believing  that.  I  never  thought  you'd 
believe  in  rot  like  that." 

"  Why  are  you  going,  then  ?  " 

The  young  man  of  ties  and  waistcoats  dropped  his  voice. 
*'  Oh — a  girl.  She's  here  somewhere — she  said  she'd  come 
— ^thinks  there's  something  in  it.  Anyhow  she  wants  it — 
she's  stunning  .  .  ." 

A  girl !  Peter's  mind  flew  absurdly  back  to  a  small  child 
in  a  short  black  frock.  "  Oh !  Crumpet !  "...  A  girl ! 
Young  Daffoll  had  spoken  as  though  it  were  indeed  some- 
thing to  get  up  at  four  in  the  morning  for!  Peter  wanted 
to  hear  more.  Young  DafFoll  was  quite  ready  to  tell  him. 
No  names,  of  course,  but  they  were  going  to  be  married 


140  FORTITUDE 

one  day.  His  governor  would  be  furious,  of  course,  and 
thej  might  have  to  run  away,  but  she  was  game  for  any- 
thing. No,  he'd  only  known  her  a  fortnight,  but  it  had 
been  a  matter  of  love  at  first  sight — extraordinary  thing — 
he'd  thought  he'd  been  head  over  ears  before,  but  never 
anything  like  this — yes,  as  a  matter  of  fact  she  was  in  a 
flower-shop — Trunter's  in  the  High  Street — her  people  had 
come  down  in  the  world — and  so  the  golden  picture  un- 
folded as  the  gauze  curtains  were  drawn  back  from  the 
world,  and  the  shoulder  of  the  Grey  Hill  rose,  like  a  cloud, 
before  them. 

Peter's  heart  beat  faster  as  he  listened  to  this  story. 
Here  was  one  of  his  dreams  translated  into  actual  fact. 
Would  he  one  day  also  have  some  one  for  whom  he  would 
be  ready  to  nm  to  the  end  of  the  world,  if  furious  parents 
demanded  it?  She  would  have,  he  was  sure,  red-gold  hair 
and  a  wonderful  smile. 

They  climbed  the  Grey  Hill.  There  was  with  them  now 
quite  a  company  of  persons — still  shadow-shapes,  for  the 
mists  were  thick  about  the  road,  but  soon  all  the  butchers 
and  bakers  of  the  world — and,  let  it  be  remembered,  all 
the  lovers,  would  be  revealed.  Now,  as  they  climbed  the 
hill,  silence  fell — even  young  Daffoll  was  quiet;  that,  too, 
it  seemed,  was  part  of  the  ceremony. 

The  hill  top  was  swiftly  gained.  The  Giant's  Finger, 
black  and  straight,  like  a  needle,  stood  through  the  shad- 
ows. Beyond  there  would  be  the  sea,  and  that  was  where 
the  sun  would  rise,  at  present  darkness.  They  all  sat 
down  on  the  stones  that  covered  the  summit — on  either  side 
of  Peter  there  were  figures,  but  Daffoll  had  vanished — it 
seemed  that  he  had  discovered  his  lady. 

Peter,  sitting  meditating  on  the  story  that  he  had  heard 
and  feeling,  suddenly,  lonely  and  deserted,  was  conscious 
of  a  small  shoe  that  touched  his  boot.  It  was,  beyond 
argument,  a  friendly  shoe — he  could  feel  that  in  the  in- 
viting tap  that  it  gave  to  him.  He  was  aware  also  that  his 
shoulder  was  touching  another  shoulder,  and  that  that  shoul- 
der was  soft  and  warm.  Finally  his  hand  touched  another 
hand — fingers  were  intertwined. 

There  was  much  conversation  out  of  the  mist: 

"  Law,  chrisy !     Well,  it's  the  last  Easter  morning  for 


SCAW  HOUSE  141 

me — thiccy  sun  hides  himself  right  enough — ^it's  poor  trade 
sitting  shivering  your  toes." 

"  Not  that  I  care  for  the  woman,  mind  ye,  Mr.  Tre- 
gothan,  sir — •with  her  haverings  talking — all  I'm  saying  is 
that  if  she's  to  come  wastin'  my  time — 

"  Thiccy  man  sitting  there  stormin'  like  an  old  owl  in 
a  tree." 

"  Oh,  get  along  with  ye — No,  I  won't  be  sitting  by  ye 
— There's—" 

Now  the  sea,  like  a  young  web  stretched  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill,  stole  out  of  the  darkness.  On  the  horizon  a  thin 
line  of  dull  yellow — wouldn't  it  be  a  fine  sunrise.'' — ^the 
figures  on  the  hill  were  gathering  shape  and  form,  and 
many  of  them  now  were  standing,  their  bodies  sharp  against 
the  grey  sky. 

Peter  had  not  turned;  his  eyes  were  staring  out  to  sea, 
but  his  body  was  pressed  closely  against  the  girl  at  his  side. 
He  did  not  turn  nor  look  at  her — she  was  staring  at  him 
with  wonder  in  her  eyes  and  a  smile  on  her  lips.  She  was 
a  very  common  girl  with  black  hair  and  over-red  cheeks, 
and  she  was  one  of  the  dairymaids  from  Tregothan  Farm. 
She  did  not  know  whom  this  strange  young  man  might  be, 
and  it  was  not  yet  light  enough  to  see.  She  did  not  care 
— such  things  had  happened  often  enough  before,  and  she 
leant  her  fat  body  ^against  his  shoulder.  She  could  feel 
his  heart  thumping  and  his  hands  were  very  hot,  but  she 
thought  that  it  was  strange  that  he  did  not  turn  and  look 
at  her.  .  .  . 

There  was  a  stir  and  murmur  among  the  crowd  on  the 
hill  for  behold  it  would  be  a  fine  sunrise!  The  dull  yellow 
had  brightened  to  gold  and  was  speeding  like  a  herald 
across  the  grey.  Black  on  the  hill,  gold  on  the  sky,  a 
trembling  whispering  blue  across  the  sea — in  a  moment 
there  would  be  the  sun!  What  gods  were  there  hiding, 
at  that  instant,  on  the  hill,  watching,  with  scornful  eyes 
this  crowd  of  moderns?  Hidden  there  behind  the  stones, 
what  mysteries?  Screening  with  their  delicate  bodies  the 
faint  colours  of  the  true  dawn,  playing  on  their  pipes  tunes 
that  these  citizens  with  their  coarse  voices  and  dull  hearing 
could  not  understand,  what  ancient  watchers  of  the  hill 
pass  and  repass! 


142  FORTITUDE 

Behold  the  butchers  and  bakers!  Behold  Mr.  Win- 
neren,  hosier  and  outfitter,  young  Robert  Trefusis,  farmer. 
Miss  Bessie  Waddell  from  the  sweet-shop!  .  .  .  These 
otliers  fade  away  as  the  sun  rises — the  grey  mists  pass  with 
tbem. 

The  sun  is  about  to  leap  above  the  rim  of  the  sea.  Peter 
turns  and  crushes  the  poor  dairymaid  in  his  arms  and 
stifles  the  little  scream  with  the  first  kiss  of  his  life.  His 
whole  body  burns  in  that  kiss — and  then,  as  the  sun  streams 
across  the  sea  lie  has  sprung  to  his  feet  and  vanishes  over 
the  brow  of  the  hill. 

The  dairymaid  wipes  her  lips  with  the  back  of  her  hand. 
They  have  joined  hands  and  are  already  dancing  round  the 
Giant's  Finger.  It  is  black  now,  but  in  a  moment  the 
flames  of  the  sun  will  leap  upon  it,  and  good  omens  will 
send  them  all  singing  down  the  hill. 

IV 

On  Tuesday  evening  Peter  slipped  for  a  moment  into 
Zachary  Tan's  shop  and  told  Mr.  Zanti  that  he  would  be 
on  the  station  platform  at  half-past  seven  on  the  following 
morning.  He  could  scarcely  speak  for  excitement.  He 
was  also  filled  with  a  penetrating  sadness.  Above  all,  he 
wished  only  to  exchange  the  briefest  word  with  his  future 
master.  He  did  not  understand  altogether  but  it  was  per- 
haps because  Mr.  Zanti  and  all  his  world  belonged  to  to- 
morrow. .  .  .  Mr.  Zanti 's  fat,  jolly  body,  his  laugh,  his 
huge  soft  hands  .  .  .  Peter  could  not  do  more  to  this  gen- 
tleman than  remember  that  he  meant  so  much  that  he  would 
be  overwhelmed  by  him  if  he  did  not  leave  him  alone.  So 
he  darted  in  and  gave  his  message  and  darted  out  again. 
The  little  street  was  shining  in  the  sun  and  the  gentlest 
waves  were  lapping  the  wooden  jetty — Oh,  this  dear  town! 
Tliese  houses,  these  cobbles — all  the  smells  and  colours  of 
tlic  place — he  was  leaving  it  all  so  easily  on  so  perilous  an 
adventure.  Poor  Peter  was  moved  by  so  many  things  that 
he  could  only  gulp  the  tears  back  and  hurry  home.  There 
was  at  any  rate  work  to  be  done  there  about  which  there 
could  be  no  uncertain  intention. 

His  father  had  been  drinking  all  the  afternoon.  Mrs. 
Pascoc  with  red  arms  akimbo,  watclicd  them  as  they  ate 
their  supper. 


SCAW  HOUSE  148 

When  the  meal  was  finished  Peter,  standing  by  his 
father,  his  face  very  white,  said: 

"  I  am  going  to  London  to-morrow." 

Mr.  Westcott  had  aged  a  great  deal  during  the  last 
month.  His  hair  was  touched  with  grey,  there  were  dark 
lines  under  his  eyes,  his  cheeks  were  sunken,  his  lip  trem- 
bled. He  was  looking  moodily  at  the  cloth,  crumbling  his 
bread.  He  did  not  hear  Peter's  remark,  but  continued  his 
argument  with  Mrs.  Pascoe: 

"  It  wasn't  cooked,  I  tell  you — you're  growing  as  slack 
as  Hell." 

"  Your  precious  son  'as  got  something  as  *e  would  like 
to  say  to  yer,"  remarked  that  pleasant  woman  grimly. 

Peter  repeated  his  remark.  His  father  grasped  it  but 
slowly — -at  last  he  said: 

"  Damn  you,  what  are  you  talking  about .''  " 

"  I'm  leaving  here   and  going  to   London  to-morrow." 

Mr.  Westcott  turned  his  bloodshot  eyes  in  the  direction 
of  the  fire-place — "  Curse  it,  I  can't  see  straight.  You 
young  devil — I'll  do  for  you — "  all  this  said  rather  sullenly 
and  as  though  he  were  speaking  to  himself. 

Peter,  having  delivered  his  news,  passed  Mrs.  Pascoe's 
broad  body,  and  moved  to  the  doorway.  He  turned  with 
his  hand  on  the  door. 

"  I'm  glad  I'm  going,"  he  said,  "  you've  always  bullied 
me,  and  I've  always  hated  you.  You  killed  my  mother 
and  she  was  a  good  woman.  You  can  have  this  house  to 
yourself — you  and  grandfather — and  that  woman — "  he 
nodded  contemptuously  at  Mrs.  Pascoe,  who  was  staring  at 
him  fiercely.  His  grandfather  was  fast  asleep  beneath  the 
cushions. 

"  Damn  you,"  said  Mr.  Westcott  very  quietly.  "  You've 
always  been  ungrateful — I  didn't  kill  your  mother,  but  she 
was  always  a  tiresome,  crying  woman." 

He  stopped  crumbling  the  bread  and  suddenly  picked 
up  a  table  knife  and  hurled  it  at  Peter.  His  hand  was 
trembling,  and  the  knife  quivering,  was  fastened  to  the  door. 

Mrs.  Pascoe  gasped,  "  Gawd  'elp  us !  " 

Peter  quietly  closed  the  door  behind  him  and  went  up 
to  his  room. 

He  was  in  no  way  disturbed  by  this  interview.  His 
relations    with    his    father    were    not    of    the    things    that 


144  FORTITUDE 

now  mattered.  They  had  mattered  before  his  mother  died. 
They  had  mattered  whilst  his  father  had  been  somebody 
strong  and  terrible.  Even  at  the  funeral  how  splendid  he 
had  seemed!  But  this  trembling  creature  who  drank 
whisky  with  the  cook  was  some  one  who  concerned  Peter 
not  at  all — something  like  the  house,  to  be  left  behind. 

There  was  an  old  black  bag  that  had  held  his  things  in 
the  Dawson's  days — it  held  his  things  now.  Not  a  vast  num- 
ber— only  the  black  suit  beside  the  blue  serge  one  that  he 
was  going  to  wear,  some  under-linen,  a  sponge,  and  a  tooth- 
brush, the  books  and  an  old  faded  photograph  of  his  mother 
as  a  girl.  Nothing  like  that  white  face  that  he  had  seen, 
this  photograph,  old,  yellow,  and  faded,  but  a  girl  laugh- 
ing and  beautiful — after  all,  his  most  precious  possession. 

Then,  when  the  bag  was  packed,  he  sat  or-  the  bed, 
swung  his  legs,  and  thought  about  everything.  He  was 
nearly  eighteen,  nearly  a  man,  and  as  hard  as  rock.  He 
could  feel  the  muscles  swelling,  there  was  no  fat  about  him, 
he  was  sound  all  over. 

He  looked  back  and  saw  tlie  things  that  stood  out  like 
hills  above  the  plain — that  night,  years  ago,  when  he  was 
whipped,  the  day  that  he  first  met  Mr.  Zanti,  the  first  day 
at  school,  the  day  when  he  said  good-bye  to  Cards,  the 
hour,  at  the  end  of  it  all,  when  they  hissed  him,  that  last 
evening  with  Stephen,  the  day  with  his  mother  .  .  .  and 
then,  quite  lately,  that  afternoon  when  Mr.  Zanti  asked 
him  to  go  to  London,  the  little  girl  with  the  black  frock 
on  the  hill  .  .  .  last  of  all,  that  kiss  (never  mind  with 
whom)  on  Easter  morning — all  these  things  had  made  him 
what  he  was — yes,  and  all  the  people — Frosted  Moses, 
Stephen,  his  fatlier,  his  mother,  Bobby  Galleon,  Cards,  Mr. 
Zanti,  the  little  girl.  As  he  swung  his  legs  he  knew  that 
everything  that  he  did  afterwards  would  be,  in  some  way, 
attached  to  these  earlier  things  and  these  earlier  people. 

He  had  brave  hopes  and  brave  ambitions  and  a  warm 
heart  as  he  flung  himself  into  bed;  it  speaks  well  for  him 
that,  on  the  night  before  he  set  out  on  his  adventure,  he 
slept  like  the  child  that  he  really  was. 

But  he  knew  that  he  would  wake  at  six  o'clock.  He 
had  determined  that  it  should  be  so,  and  the  clocks  were 
ttriking  as  he  opened  his  eyes.     It  was  very  dark  and  the 


SCAW  HOUSE  115 

cocks  crowed  beyond  his  open  window,  and  the  misty  morn- 
ing swept  in  and  blew  his  lighted  candle  up  and  down.  He 
dressed  in  the  blue  serge  suit  with  a  blue  tie  fastened  in  a 
sailor's  knot.  He  leaned  out  of  his  window  and  tried  to 
imagine,  out  of  the  darkness,  the  beloved  moor — then  he 
took  his  black  bag  and  crept  downstairs;  it  was  striking 
half-past  six  as  he  came  softly  into  the  hall. 

There  he  saw  that  the  gas  was  flaring  and  that  his  father 
was  standing  in  his  night-shirt. 

"  I  think  I'm  in  front  of  you,"  he  said,  smiling. 
"  Let  me  go,  father,"  Peter  said,  very  white,  and  putting 
down  the  bag. 

"  Be  damned  to  you,"  said  his  father.  "  You  don't  get 
through  this  door." 

It  was  all  so  ludicrous,  so  utterly  absurd,  that  his  father 
should  be  standing,  in  his  night-shirt,  on.  this  very  cold 
morning,  under  the  flaring  gas.  It  occurred  to  Peter  that 
as  he  wanted  to  laugh  at  this  Mr.  Zanti  could  not  have  been 
right  about  his  lack  of  humour.  Peter  walked  up  to  his 
father,  and  his  father  caught  him  by  the  throat.  Mr. 
Westcott  was  still,  in  spite  of  recent  excesses,  sufficiently 
strong. 

"  I  very  much  want  to  choke  you,"  he  said. 
Peter,  however,  was  stronger. 

His  father  dropped  the  hold  of.  his  throat,  and  had  him, 
by  the  waist,  but  his  hands  slipped  amongst  his  clothes. 
For  a  moment  they  swayed  together,  and  Peter  could  feel 
the  heat  of  his  father's  body  beneath  the  night-shirt  and 
the  violent  beating  of  his  heart.  It  was  immensely  ludi- 
crous; moreover  there  now  appeared  on  the  stairs  Mrs. 
Pascoe,  in  a  flannel  jacket  over  a  night-gown,  and  untidy 
hair  about  her  ample  shoulders. 

"  The  Lord  be  kind ! "  she  cried,  and  stood,  staring. 
Mr.  Westcott  was  breathing  very  heavily  in  Peter's  face, 
and  their  eyes  were  so  close  together  that  Peter  could  no- 
tice how  bloodshot  his  father's  were. 

"  God  damn  you !  "  said  his  father  and  slipped,  and  they 
came  down  on  to  the  wood  floor  together.  Peter  rose,  but 
his  father  lay  there,  breathing  heavily. 

"  God  damn  you,"  he  said  again,  but  he  did  not  move. 
"  You'd  better  look  after  him,"   Peter  said,  turning  tc 


146  FORTITUDE 

the  astounded  Mrs.  Pascoe.  As  he  moved  he  saw  a  sur- 
prising sight,  his  grandfather's  door  was  opened  and  his 
grandfather  (who  had  not  been  on  his  feet  for  a  great  many 
years)  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  it,  cackling  with 
laughter,  dressed  in  a  very  ugly  yellow  dressing-gown,  his 
old  knotted  hands  clutching  the  sides  of  the  door,  his  shriv- 
elled body  shaking,  and  his  feet  in  large  red  slippers. 

"  Dear  me,  that  was  a  nasty  knock,"  he  chattered. 

And  so  Peter  left  them. 

The  high  road  was  cool  and  fresh  and  dark.  The  sea 
sung  somewhere  below  amongst  the  rocks,  and  Peter  im- 
mediately was  aware  that  he  was  leaving  Cornwall. 

Now  he  had  no  other  thought.  The  streets  of  the  town 
were  deserted,  clean,  smelling  of  the  fields,  hay-carts,  and 
primroses,  with  the  darkness  broken  by  dim  lamps,  and  a 
very  slender  moon.  His  heart  was  full,  his  throat  burning. 
He  crossed  the  market-place  and  suddenly  bent  down  and 
kissed  the  worn  stones  of  the  Tower.  There  was  no  one 
to  see. 

He  was  in  the  station  at  twenty  minutes  past  seven. 
The  platform  was  long  and  cold  and  deserted,  but  in  the 
waiting-room  was  Mr.  Zanti  enveloped  in  an  enormous  black 
coat. 

"  Ah,  my  dear  boy,  this  is  indeed  splendid.  And  'ave 
you  said  farewell  to  your  father }  " 

"  Yes,  I've  said  good-bye  to  every  one,"  he  answered 
slowly.  Suddenly  he  would  have  given  all  the  wide  world 
and  his  prospects  in  it  not  to  be  going.  The  terrors  of 
Scaw  House  were  as  noUiing  beside  that  little  grey  town 
with  the  waves  breaking  on  the  jetty,  the  Grey  Hill  above 
it,  the  twisted  cobbled  streets. 

The  morning  wind  blew  up  the  platform,  the  train  rolled 
in;  there  were  porters,  but  Mr.  Zanti  had  only  a  big  brown 
bag  which  he  kept  with  him. 

Soon  they  were  in  corners  facing  one  another.  As  the 
train  swept  past  the  Tower  the  grey  dawn  was  breaking  into 
blue  over  the  hous-es  that  rose,  tier  by  tier,  to  the  sky  over 
the  grey  rolling  breakers,  over  the  hills  beyond  .  .  .  Corn- 
wall! 

Poor  Peter  stared  with  passionate  eyes  as  the  vision 
passed. 

"  London  soon/'  said  Mr.  Zanti,  gaily. 


CHAPTER  XI 
ALL  KINDS  OF  FOG  IN  THE  CHARING  CROSS  ROAD 


TOWARDS  the  middle  of  the  dim  afternoon  as  the  first 
straight  pale  houses  began  to  close  in  upon  the  train,  a 
lady  and  gentleman  on  the  opposite  side  to  Peter  were  dis- 
covered by  him,  as  he  awoke  from  a  long  sleep,  to  be 
talking : 

"  Well,  my  dear  Lucy,  how  we  are  ever  to  get  on  if 
you  want  to  do  these  absurd  things  I  don't  know.  In  Lon- 
don one  must  do  as  London  does.  In  the  country  of 
course  ,  .  ." 

He  was  short,  breathless  and  a  little  bald.  The  lady 
was  young  and  very  upset. 

"  But,  Henry,  what  does  it  matter  ?  " 

"  What  does  it  matter }  My  dear  Lucy,  in  London 
everything  matters — " 

She  was  excited.  "  In  Kensington  perhaps,  but  in  Lon- 
don—" 

"  Allow  me,  my  dear  Lucy,  to  decide  for  you.  When 
you  are  my  age — " 

Peter  went  to  sleep  again. 


II 

The  vast  iron-girdled  station  was  very  dark  and  Mr. 
Zanti  explained  that  this  was  because,  outside,  there  was  a 
Fog— 

"  The  Fog,"  he  added,  as  though  it  had  been  a  huge 
and  ferocious  animal,  "  is  very  yellow  and  has  eaten  up  Lon- 
don.    It  will  take  us  a  very  long  time  to  find  our  home." 

To  Peter,  short  and  square,  in  his  rough  suit  shouldering 
his  bag,  this  was  all  as  the  infernal  regions.  The  vast 
place  towered  high,  into  misty  distances  above  him.  Trains, 
like  huge  beasts,  stretched  their  limbs  into  infinity;  screams, 
piercing  and   angry,  broke  suddenly  the  voices  and  busy 

147 


148  FORTITUDE 

movement  that  flooded  the  place  with  sounds.  He  was 
jostled  and  pushed  aside  and  people  turned  and  swore  at 
him  and  a  heated  porter  ran  a  truck  into  his  legs.  And 
through  it  and  above  it  all  the  yellow  fog  came  twisting  in 
coils  from  the  dark  street  beyond  and  every  one  coughed 
and  choked  and  cursed  England. 

Mr.  Zanti,  after  fi\-e  minutes'  angry  pursuit,  caught  a 
reluctant  and  very  shabby  four-wheeler,  and  they  both 
climbed  into  its  cavernous  depths  and  Peter's  nose  was  filled 
with  sometliing  that  had  leather  and  oranges  and  paper  bags 
and  whisky  in  it;  he  felt  exactly  as  though  Mr.  Zanti  (look- 
ing very  like  an  ogre  in  the  mysterious  yellow  light  with 
his  bowler  on  the  back  of  his  head  and  mopping  his  face 
with  a  huge  crimson  handkerchief)  were  decoying  him 
away  to  some  terrible  fastness  where  it  was  always  dark 
and  smelly. 

And  indeed  that  first  vision  of  London,  seen  through 
the  grimy  windows  of  the  cab,  was  terrible  enough.  The 
cab  moved  a  little,  stopped,  moved  again;  it  seemed  that 
they  would  be  there  for  ever  and  they  exchanged  no  word. 
There  were  no  buildings  to  be  seen;  a  vast  wall  of  dark- 
ness surrounded  him  and  ever  and  again,  out  of  the  heart 
of  it,  a  great  cauldron  of  fire  flamed  and  by  the  side  of  it 
there  were  wild,  agitated  faces — and  again  darkness.  On 
every  side  of  the  stumbling  cab  there  was  noise — ^voices 
shouting,  women  screaming,  the  rumbling  of  wheels,  the 
plunging  of  horses'  hoofs;  sometimes  things  brushed  against 
their  cab — once  Peter  thought  that  they  were  down  because 
they  were  jerked  right  forward  against  the  opposite  seats. 
And  then  suddenly,  in  the  most  wonderful  way,  they  would 
plunge  into  silence,  a  silence  so  deep  and  cavernous  that  it 
was  more  fearful  than  those  other  noises  had  been,  and  the 
yellow  darkness  seemed  to  crowd  upon  them  with  a  closer 
eagerness  and  it  was  as  though  they  were  driving  over  the 
edge  of  the  world.  Then  the  noises  returned,  for  a  moment 
the  fog  lifted  showing  houses,  rising  like  rocks  from  the 
sea  sheer  about  them  on  every  side,  then  darkness  again 
and  the  cab  stopped  with  a  jerk. 

"  Ah,  good,"  said  Mr.  Zanti,  rolling  his  red  handkerchief 
into  a  ball.  "  'Ere  we  are,  my  young  friend — Mr.  Peter, 
after  you,  please." 


SCAW  HOUSE  149 

Before  him  a  light  faintly  glimmered  and  towards  this, 
after  stumbling  on  the  slippery  pavement,  he  made  his  way. 
He  found  himself  in  a  bookshop  lighted  with  gas  that  hissed 
and  spit  like  an  angry  cat;  the  shop  was  low  and  stuflpy 
but  its  walls  were  covered  with  books  that  stretched  into 
misty  fog  near  the  ceiling.  Behind  a  dingy  counter  a  man 
was  sitting.  This  man  struck  Peter's  attention  at  once  be- 
cause of  the  enormous  size  of  his  head  and  the  amount  of 
hair  that  covered  it — starting  out  of  the  mist  and  obscurity 
of  the  shop,  this  head  looked  like  some  strange  fungus,  and 
from  the  heart  of  it  there  glittered  two  very  bright  eyes. 

Peter,  standing  awkwardly  in  the  middle  of  the  shop, 
gazed  at  this  head  and  was  speechless. 

Outside,  Mr.  Zanti  could  be  heard  disputing  with  the 
cabman. 

"  You  can  go  and  be  damned — ze  bags  were  not  on  ze 
outside — Zat  is  plenty  for  your  pay  and  you  be  damned — " 

The  shop  door  closed  with  a  bang  shutting  out  the  fog 
and  Mr.  Zanti  filled  the  little  bookshop.  He  seemed  taller 
and  larger  than  he  had  been  in  Cornwall  and  his  voice  was 
sharper.  The  head  removed  itself  from  the  counter  and 
Peter  saw  that  it  belonged  to  a  small  man  with  a  hump  who 
came  forward  to  Mr.  Zanti  very  humbly. 

"Ah,  Gottfried,"  said  Zanti,  "you  well?" 

"  Very,  sir,"  answered  the  little  man,  bowing  a  little  and 
smiling;  his  voice  was  gutteral  with  a  very  slight  accent. 

"  This  is  Mr.  Peter  Westcott.  'E  will  work  here  and 
'elp  you  with  ze  books.  'E  is  a  friend  of  mine  and  you  will 
be  kind  to  him.  Mr.  Peter,  zis  is  Herr  Gottfried  Hanz — 
I  owe  'im  much — ver'  clever  man." 

They  shook  hands  and  Peter  liked  the  pair  of  eyes  that 
gazed  into  his. 

Then  Mr.  Zanti  said,  "  Come,  I  will  show  you  ze  rest  of 
ze  place.     It  is  not  a  mansion,  you  will  find." 

Indeed  it  was  not.  Behind  the  shop  there  was  a  room, 
brown  and  green,  with  two  windows  that  looked  on  to  a 
yard,  so  Mr.  Zanti  said.  There  was  no  furniture  in  it 
save  a  table  and  some  chairs;  a  woman  was  spreading  a 
cloth  on  the  table  as  they  came  in.  This  woman  had  grey 
hair  that  escaped  its  pins  and  fell  untidily  about  her  shoul- 
ders.    She  was  very  pale,  tall  and  thin  and  her  most  striking 


150  FORTITUDE 

features  were  her  piercing  black  eyes  and  with  these  she 
stared  at  Peter. 

"  Zis  is  Mrs.  Dantzig,"  said  Mr.  Zanti,  "  an  old  friend 
— Mr.  Peter  Westcott,  Mrs.  Dantzig.  'E  will  work  wiz 
us." 

The  woman  said  nothing  but  nodded  her  head  and  con- 
tinued her  work.  They  passed  out  of  the  room.  Stairs 
ran  both  up  and  down. 

"What  is  down  there?"  asked  Peter. 

"  Ah,  zat  is  ze  kitchen,"  said  Mr.  Zanti,  laughing.  Up- 
stairs there  was  a  clean  and  neat  bedroom  with  a  large  bed 
in  it,  an  old  sofa  and  two  chairs. 

"  Zis  is  where  I  sleep,"  said  Mr.  Zanti.  "  For  a  night 
or  two  until  you  'ave  discovered  a  lodging  you  shall  sleep 
on  zat  sofa.     Zay  will  make  it  whilst  we  'ave  supper." 

It  was  now  late  and  Peter  was  very  very  tired.  Down- 
stairs there  was  much  bread  and  butter  and  bacon  and  eggs, 
and  beer.  The  woman  waited  upon  them  but  they  were  all 
very  silent  and  Peter  was  too  sleepy  to  be  hungry. 

The  table  was  cleared  and  Mr.  Zanti  sat  smoking  his 
pipe  and  talking  to  the  woman.  Peter  sat  there,  nodding, 
and  he  thought  that  their  conversation  was  in  a  foreign 
tongue  and  he  thought  that  they  looked  at  him  and  that 
the  woman  was  angry  about  something — but  the  sleep  al- 
ways gained  upon  him — he  could  not  keep  it  away. 

At  last  a  hand  was  upon  his  shoulder  and  he  was  led  up 
to  bed. 

He  tumbled  out  of  his  clothes  and  his  last  impression 
was  of  Mr.  Zanti  standing  in  front  of  him,  looking  vast  and 
very  solemn  in  a  blue  cotton  night-shirt. 

"  Peter,"  Mr.  Zanti  seemed  to  be  saying,  "  you  see  in  me, 
one,  two,  a  hundred  men.  .  .  .  All  my  life  I  seek  adven- 
ture— fun — and  I  find  it — but  there  'as  not  been  room  for 
ze  affections.  Then  I  find  you — I  love  you  as  my  son  and 
I  say  '  Come  to  my  bookshop  ' — But  only  ze  bookshop  mind 
you — you  are  there  for  ze  books  and  l)ccause  I  care  for 
you — I  care  for  you  vcr'  much,  Peter,  and  zere  'as  not  been 
room  in  my  life  for  ze  afTcctions  .  .  .  but  I  will  be  a  ver* 
good  friend  to  you — and  you  shall  only  be  in  ze  shop — with 
ze  books — I  will  l)e  a  good  friend — " 

Then   it   seemed   tliat   Mr.   Zanti   kissed   Peter   on   both 


SCAW  HOUSE  151 

cheeks,  blew  out  the  candle,  and  climbed  into  his  huge  bed; 
soon  he  was  snoring. 

But  Peter  could  not  be  sure  of  these  things  because  he 
was  so  very  tired  that  he  did  not  know  whether  he  were 
standing  on  his  head  or  his  heels  and  he  was  asleep  on  his 
sofa  and  dreaming  about  the  strangest  and  most  confused 
events  in  less  than  no  time  at  all. 


Ill 

And  then  how  wonderful  to  discover,  on  waking  up  the 
next  morning,  that  it  was  a  beautiful  day,  as  beautiful  a 
day  as  any  that  Cornwall  could  give  him.  It  was  indeed 
odd,  after  the  great  darkness  of  the  afternoon  before  to 
find  now  a  burning  blue  sky,  bright  shining  pavements  and 
the  pieces  of  iron  and  metal  on  the  cabs  glittering  as  they 
rolled  along.  The  streets  were  doubtless  delightful  but 
Peter  was  not,  on  this  day  at  any  rate,  to  see  very  much  of 
them;  he  was  handed  over  to  the  care  of  Herr  Gottfried 
Hanz,  who  had  obviously  not  brushed  his  hair  when  he  got 
up  in  the  morning;  he  also  wore  large  blue  slippers  that 
were  too  big  for  his  feet  and  clattered  behind  him  as  he 
walked.  Whatever  light  there  might  be  in  the  street  out- 
side only  chinks  of  it  found  their  way  into  the  shop  and 
the  gas-jet  hissed  and  flared  as  it  had  done  on  the  day 
before.  The  books  seemed  mistier  and  dustier  than  ever 
and  Peter  wondered,  in  a  kind  of  despair,  how  in  the  world 
if  any  one  did  come  in  and  ask  for  anything  he  was  going 
to  tell  them  whether  it  were  there  or  not. 

But  here  Herr  Gottfried  came  to  the  rescue.  "  See 
you,"  he  said  with  an  air  of  pride,  "  it  is  thus  that  they 
are  arranged.  Here  you  have  the  Novel — Bronte,  Bulwer, 
Bunyan  ("  The  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  that  is  not  a  novel  but 
it  is  near  enough").  Here  you  have  History,  and  here  the 
Poets,  and  here  Philosophy  and  here  Travel — it  will  all  bs 
simple  in  time — " 

Peter's  eyes  spun  dizzily  to  the  heights. 

"  There  is  a  little  ladder,"  said  Herr  Gottfried. 

"  And,"  at  last  said  Peter  timidly,  "  May  I — read — 
when  there  is  no  one  here  ?  " 


152  FORTITUDE 

Herr  Gottfried  looked  at  him  with  a  new  interest. 
"  You  like  reading?  " 

"  Like !  "     Peter's  voice  was  an  ecstasy. 

"  Why  of  course,  often."  Herr  Gottfried  smiled. 
"And  then  see!  (he  opened  the  shop  door)  there  is  a  small 
boy,  James,  who  is  supposed  to  look  after  these  (these  vrere 
the  Id.,  2d.  and  3d.  boxes  outside  the  window,  on  the  pave- 
ment) but  he  is  an  idle  boy  and  often  enough  he  is  not 
there  and  then  we  must  have  the  door  open  and  you  must 
watch  them.  Often  enough  (this  seemed  a  favourite  phrase 
of  his)  these  gentlemen  (tliis  with  great  scorn)  will  turn 
the  books  over  and  over  and  they  will  look  up  the  street 
once  and  they  will  look  down  the  street  once,  and  then  into 
the  pocket  a  book  will  go — often  enough,"  he  added,  look- 
ing beyond  the  door  savagely  at  a  very  tired  and  tattered 
lady  who  was  turning  the  Id.  lot  over  and  over. 

Then,  this  introductory  lesson  concluded,  Herr  Gottfried 
suddenly  withdrew  into  the  tangles  of  his  hair  and  re- 
treated behind  his  counter.  Through  the  open  door  there 
came  the  most  entrancing  sound  and  the  bustle  of  the  street 
was  loud  and  startling — bells  ringing,  boys  shouting,  wheels 
rattling,  and  beyond  these  immediate  notes  a  steady  hum 
like  the  murmur  of  an  orchestra  heard  through  closed  doors. 
All  this  was  wonderful  enough  but  it  was  nothing  at  all  to 
the  superlative  fascination  of  that  multitude  of  books. 
Peter  found  a  hard  little  chair  in  a  dark  corner  and  sat 
down  upon  it  Here  he  was  in  the  very  heart  of  his  king- 
dom! He  could  never  read  all  the  books  in  this  place  if 
he  lived  for  two  hundred  years  .  .  .  and  so  he  had  better 
not  try.  He  made  a  blind  dash  at  the  volumes  nearest  him 
(quietly  lest  he  should  disturb  Herr  Gottfried  who  seemed 
very  busy  at  his  counter)  and  secured  something  and  read 
it  as  well  as  he  could,  for  the  light  was  very  bad.  It  was 
called  "  The  True  and  Faithful  Experiences  of  the  Rever- 
end James  Scott  in  tlie  Other  World  Being  a  Veracious  His- 
tory of  his  Experiences  of  the  Life  after  Death  " — the  dust 
rose  from  its  pages  in  little  clouds  and  tempted  him  to  sneeze 
but  he  bit  his  lip  and  counted  forty  and  saved  the  situation. 

Herr  Gottfried  dealt  with  the  customers  that  morning  and 
Peter  stood  nervously  watching  him.  The  customers  were 
not  very  many — an   old   lady  who  "  wanted  something  to 


SCAW  HOUSE  153 

read  '*  caused  many  volumes  to  be  laid  before  her,  and 
finally  left  the  shop  without  buying  anything — a  young  man 
with  spectacles  purchased  some  tattered  science  and  a  cler- 
gyman some  Sermons.  A  thin  and  very  himgry  looking 
man  entered,  clutching  a  badly-tied  paper  parcel.  These 
were  books  he  wanted  to  sell.  They  were  obviously  treas- 
ured possessions  because  he  touched  them,  when  they  were 
laid  upon  the  counter,  with  a  loving  hand. 

"  They  are  very  good  books,"  he  said  plaintively. 

"  Three  shillings,"  said  Herr  Gottfried. 

The  hungry  man  sighed. 

"  Five  shillings,"  he  said,  "  they  are  worth  more.** 

"  Three  shillings  for  the  lot,"  said  Herr  Gottfried. 

"  It  is  very  little,"  said  the  hungry  man,  but  he  took  the 
money  and  went  out  sadly. 

Once  there  came  a  magnificent  gentleman — that  is,  he 
looked  magnificent  in  the  distance  away  from  the  gas  jet. 
He  was  tall  with  a  high  hat,  a  fine  moustache  and  a  tail- 
coat; he  had  melancholy  eyes  and  a  languid  air.  Peter 
was  sorry  to  observe  on  a  closer  view  that  his  tail-coat  was 
frayed  and  his  collar  not  very  clean. 

He  gave  Herr  Gottfried  a  languid  bow  and  passed 
through  the  shop  into  the  room  beyond. 

"  Guten  Tag,  Herr  Signer,"  said  Herr  Gottfried  with 
deference,  but  the  gentleman  had  already  disappeared. 

Then,  after  a  time,  one  o'clock  struck  and  Peter  under- 
stood that  if  he  would  place  himself  under  Herr  Gottfried's 
protection  he  should  be  led  to  an  establishment  where  for 
a  small  sum  meat-pies  were  to  be  had  ...  all  this  very 
novel  and  delightful,  and  Peter  laid  down  "  The  Experi- 
ences of  the  Reverend  James  Scott,"  which  were  not  at 
present  very  thrilling  and  followed  his  guide  into  the  street. 
Peter  was  still  wondering  where  Herr  Gottfried  had  put 
his  blue  slippers  and  whence  had  come  the  large  flat  boots 
and  the  brown  and  faded  squash  hat  when  he  was  suddenly 
in  a  little  dark  street  with  the  houses  hanging  forward  as 
though  they  were  listening  and  any  number  of  clothes  dan- 
gling from  the  window  sills  and  waving  about  as  though 
their  owners  were  still  inside  them  and  kicking  vigorously. 
Although  the  street  was  dark  it  was  full  of  noise,  and  a 
blaze  of  light  at  the  other  end  of  it  proclaimed  more  dri- 


154  FORTITUDE 

Used  quarters  (Trafalgar  Square  in  fact)  at  no  great  dis- 
tance. 

"  Gerade  aus,"  said  Herr  Gottfried  and  pushed  open  a 
swinging  door.  Peter  followed  him  into  the  most  amazing 
babel  of  voices,  a  confusion  and  a  roaring,  an  atmosphere 
thick  with  smoke  and  steam  and  a  scent  in  the  air  as  though 
ten  thousand  meat-pies  were  cooking  there  before  his  eyes. 
By  the  door  a  neat  stout  little  woman,  hung  all  over  with 
lockets  and  medallions  as  though  she  were  wearing  all  the 
prizes  that  the  famous  meat-pies  had  ever  won,  was  sitting 
in  a  little  box  with  a  glass  front  to  it. 

"  Bon  jour.  Monsieur  Hanz." 

"  Tag,  Meine  Gnadige  Frau." 

All  down  the  room,  by  the  wall,  ran  long  tables  black 
with  age  and  grime.  Men  of  every  age  and  nationality 
were  eating,  drinking,  smoking  and  talking.  Some  of  them 
knew  Herr  Gottfried,  some  did  not. 

"  Wie  gehts,  Gottfried.''" 

And  Herr  Gottfried,  planting  his  flat  feet  like  dead 
weights  in  front  of  him,  taking  off  his  hat  and  running  his 
fingers  through  his  hair,  smiled  at  some,  spoke  to  others, 
and  at  last  found  a  little  corner  at  the  end  of  the  room,  a 
corner  comparatively  quiet  but  most  astoundingly  smelly. 

Peter  sat  down  and  recovered  his  breath.  How  far  away 
now  was  Treliss  with  its  cobbled  street,  and  the  Grey  Hill 
with  the  Giant's  Finger  pointing  solemnly  to  the  sky. 

"  I  have  no  money,"  he  said. 

"  The  Master  has  given  me  this  for  you,"  Herr  Gottfried 
said,  handing  him  two  sovereigns,  "  he  says  it  is  in  advance 
for  the  week." 

The  meat-pies,  beer  and  bread  were  ordered  and  then 
for  a  time  they  sat  in  silence.  Peter  was  turning  in  his 
mind  a  thousand  questions  that  he  would  like  to  ask  but  he 
was  still  afraid  of  his  strange  companion  and  he  felt  a 
little  as  though  he  were  some  human  volcano  that  might  at 
any  moment  burst  forth  and  cover  him  with  furious  dis- 
aster. 

Then  Herr  Gottfried  said: 

"And  so  you  care  for  reading?" 

'•  Yes." 

"What  do  you  read?" 


SCAW  HOUSE  155 

What  had  Peter  read  ?  He  mentioned  timidly  "  David 
Copperfield/'  "  Don  Quixote,"   and  "  Henry  Lessingham." 

"Ah,  that's  the  way — novels,  novels,  novels — always 
sugar  .  .  .  Greek,   Latin?" 

"  No,  just  a  little  at  school." 

"  Ah,  yes,  your  schools.     I  know  them.     Homer  ?  " 

"  No,  I'm  afraid  not." 

"  Ah,  well  you  shall  read  Homer.  He  is  the  greatest, 
he  is  the  Master.  There  is  Pope  for  a  beginning.  I  will 
teach  you  Greek.  .  .  .  Goethe?  " 

"  I — beg  your  pardon." 

"  Goethe,  Goethe,  Goethe — ^he  has  never  heard  of  him — • 
never.  Ah,  these  schools — I  know  them.  Teach  them  non- 
sense— often   enough — but   any  wisdom — never — " 

"  I'm  very  sorry — "  said  Peter  humbly. 

"  And  music  ?  " 

*'  I've  had  no  opportunity — " 

"But  you  would  love  it?  Yes,  I  see  that  you  would 
love  it — it  is  in  your  eyes.  Beethoven?  No — ^later  per- 
haps— then  often  enough — ^but  Schubert !  Ah,  Schubert !  " 
(here  the  meat-pies  arrived  but  Herr  Gottfried  does  not  see 
them) .  "  Ah,  the  Unfinished !  He  shall  hear  that  and 
he  will  have  a  new  soul — And  the  songs !  Gott  in  Himmel, 
the  songs !  There  is  a  man  I  know,  he  will  sing  them  to 
you.  Die  Mullerlieder.  It  is  always  water,  the  Flowers, 
the  Sun  and  all  the  roses  in  the  world  .  .  .  ach !  *  Dir 
Spinnerin  '  *  Meersstille  '  .  .  .  *  Meersstille  ' — yah.  Homer, 
Schubert — meat  and  drink — Homer  the  meat-pie,  Schubert 
the  beer,  but  not  this  beer — no,  Helles,  beautiful  Helles 
with  the  sun  in  it.  .  .  ." 

He  had  forgotten  Peter  and  Peter  did  not  understand 
anything  that  he  said,  but  he  sat  there  with  his  eyes  wide 
open  and  felt  assured  that  it  was  all  very  useful  to  him  and 
very  important.  The  inferno  continued  around  them,  the 
air  grew  thicker  with  smoke,  a  barrel-organ  began  to  play 
at  the  door,  draughts  and  dominoes  rattled  against  the  long 
wooden  tables.  .  .  . 

Ah!  this  was,  indeed,  London. 

Peter  was  so  greatly  moved  that  his  hunger  left  him  and 
it  was  with  difficulty  that  the  meat-pie  was  finished. 


-156  FORTITUDE 


IV 


During  the  three  days  that  followed  Peter  learnt  a  very 
great  deal  about  the  bookshop.  At  night  he  still  slept  in 
Mr.  Zanti's  bedroom,  but  it  was  only  a  temporary  pitching 
of  tents  during  these  days  whilst  he  was  a  stranger  and 
baffled  by  the  noise  and  confusion. 

Already  his  immediate  surroundings  had  ceased  to  be  a 
mystery.  He  had  as  it  were  taken  them  to  himself  and 
seated  himself  in  the  midst  of  them  with  surprising  ease. 
Treliss,  Scaw  House,  his  father,  had  slipped  back  into  an 
unintelligible  distance.  He  felt  that  they  still  mattered  to 
him  and  that  the  time  would  most  certainly  come  when  they 
would  matter  to  him  even  more,  but  they  were  not  of  imme- 
diate concern.  The  memory  of  his  mother  was  closer  to 
him.  .  .  . 

But  in  this  discovery  of  London  he  was  amazingly  happy 
— happier  than  he  had  ever  been  in  all  his  life,  and  younger 
too.  There  were  a  great  many  things  that  he  wished  to 
know,  a  great  many  questions  that  he  wished  to  ask — but 
for  the  moment  he  was  content  to  rest  and  to  grasp  what 
he  could  see. 

In  a  day  he  seemed  to  understand  the  way  that  the 
books  went,  and  not  only  that  but  even  the  places  where 
the  individual  books  were  lodged.  He  did  not,  of  course, 
know  anything  about  the  contents  of  the  books,  but  their 
titles  gave  them,  in  his  mind,  human  existence  so  that  he 
thought  of  them  as  actual  persons  living  in  different  parts 
of  the  shop.  There  was,  for  instance,  the  triumph  of  "  Lady 
Audley's  Secret."  An  old  lady  with  a  trembling  voice  and 
a  very  sharp  pair  of  eyes  wished  for  a  second-hand  copy. 

"  I'm  very  sorry,  Madame,"  began  Herr  Gottfried,  "  but 
I'm  afraid  we  haven't  .  .  ." 

"  I  think — "  said  Peter  timidly,  and  he  climbed  the  little 
ladder  and  brought  the  book  down  from  a  misty  corner. 
Herr  Gottfried  was  indeed  amazed  at  him — he  said  very 
little  but  he  was  certainly  amazed.  Indeed,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  the  "  meat-pie "  interval  he  scarcely  spoke 
throughout  the  day.  Peter  began  to  look  forward  to  one 
o'clock  for  then  the  German,  in  the  midst  of  the  babel  and 
the  smoke,  continued  the  educating  progress,  and  even  read 
Goethe's  poetry  aloud  (translating  it  into  the  strangest  £ng- 


SCAW  HOUSE  157 

lish)  and  developed  Peter's  conception  of  Homer  into  an 
alluring  and   fascinating  picture. 

Of  London  itself  during  these  days  Peter  saw  nothing. 
At  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening  the  shutters  were  put  up 
by  the  disobedient  James  and  the  shop  retired  for  the  night. 
Herr  Gottfried  shuffled  away  to  some  hidden  resting-place 
of  his  own  and  Peter  found  supper  waiting  for  him  in  the 
room  at  the  back.  He  ate  this  alone,  for  Mr.  Zanti  was 
not  there  and  during  these  three  days  he  was  hardly  visible 
at  all.  He  was  up  in  the  morning  before  Peter  was  and 
he  came  to  bed  when  Peter  was  already  asleep.  The  boy 
was  not,  however,  certain  that  his  master  was  always  away 
when  he  seemed  to  be.  He  appeared  suddenly  at  the  most 
surprising  moments,  smiling  and  cheerful  as  ever  and  with 
no  sign  of  hurry  about  him.  He  always  gave  Peter  a  nod 
and  a  kind  word  and  asked  him  how  the  books  were  going 
and  patted  him  on  the  shoulder,  but  he  was  away  almost  as 
soon  as  he  was  there. 

One  strange  thing  was  the  number  of  people  that  came 
into  the  bookshop  with  no  intention  whatever  of  having 
anything  to  do  with  the  books.  Indeed  they  paid  no  heed 
to  the  bookshop,  and  after  flinging  a  word  at  Herr  Gott- 
fried, they  would  pass  straight  into  the  room  beyond  and  as 
far  as  Peter  could  see,  never  came  out  again. 

The  magnificently-dressed  gentleman,  called  by  Herr 
Gottfried  "  Herr  Signor,"  was  one  of  these  persons. 

However,  Peter,  happy  enough  in  the  excitement  of  the 
present,  asking  no  questions  and  only  at  night,  before  he 
fell  asleep,  lying  on  his  sofa,  listening  to  the  sounds  in  the 
street  below  him,  watching  the  reflections  of  the  gas  light 
flung  up  by  the  street  lamps  on  to  the  walls  of  his  room, 
he  would  wonder  .  .  .  and,  so  wondering,  he  was  asleep. 

And  then,  on  the  fourth  day,  something  happened. 

It  was  growing  late,  and  Peter,  underneath  the  gas  jet 
was  buried  in  Mr.  Pope's  Homer.  A  knock  on  the  door 
and  the  postman  entered  with  the  letters.  As  a  rule  Herr 
Gottfried  took  them,  but  on  this  afternoon  he  had  left  the 
shop  in  Peter's  hands  for  half  an  hour  whilst  he  went  out 
to  see  a  friend.  Peter  took  the  letters  and  immediately 
the  letter  on  the  top  of  the  pile  (Mr.  Zanti 's  post  was  al- 
ways a  large  one)  set  his  heart  thumping.     The  handwrit- 


158  FORTITUDE 

ing  was  the  handwriting  of  Stephen.  There  could  be  no 
doubt  about  it,  no  possible  doubt.  Peter  had  seen  that 
writing  many  times  and  he  had  always  kept  the  letter  that 
Stephen  had  written  to  him  when  he  first  went  to  Dawson's. 
To  other  eyes  it  might  seem  an  ordiniry  enough  hand — 
rough  and  uneducated  and  sprawling — anybody's  hand,  but 
Peter  knew  that  there  could  be  no  mistake. 

The  sight  of  the  letter  as  it  lay  there  on  the  counter 
swept  away  the  shop,  the  books,  London — he  sat  looking 
at  it  with  a  longing,  stronger  than  any  longing  that  he  had 
ever  known,  to  see  the  writer  again.  He  lived  once  more 
through  that  night  on  the  farm — perhaps  at  that  moment 
he  felt  suddenly  his  loneliness,  here  in  this  huge  and  tem- 
pestuous London,  here  in  this  dark  bookshop  with  so  many 
people  going  in  or  out.  He  rubbed  the  sleeves  of  his  blue 
serge  suit  because  they  made  him  feel  like  Treliss,  and  he 
sat,  with  eyes  staring  into  the  dark,  thinking  of  Stephen. 

That  evening,  just  as  he  was  going  up  to  bed,  Mr.  Zanti 
came  in  and  greeted  him  with  his  accustomed  cheerfulness. 

"Going  to  bed,  Peter.''     Ah,  good  boy." 

Peter  stopped,  hesitating,  by  the  door. 

"  Oh,  I  wonder — "  he  said  and  stopped. 

"  Yes  ?  "  said  Mr.  Zanti,  looking  at  him. 

"  Oh — well — it's  nothing — "  Then  he  blurted  out — "  I 
saw  a  letter — I  couldn't  help  it — a  letter  from  Stephen  this 
afternoon.  They  came  when  Herr  Gottfried  was  out — 
and  I  wanted — I  want  dreadfully — to  hear  about  him — if 
you  could  tell  me — " 

For  an  instant  Mr.  Zanti's  large  eyes  closed  until  they 
seemed  to  be  no  larger  than  pin-points — they  they  opened 
egain. 

"  Stephen — Stephen  ?  Stephen  what  ?  What  is  it  that 
the  boy  talks  of?  " 

"  You  know — Stephen  Brant — the  man  who  first  brought 
me  to  see  you  when  I  was  quite  a  kid.  I  was — I  always 
have  been  very  fond  of  him.     I  sliould  be  so  very  glad — " 

"  Surely  tlie  boy  is  mad — what  has  come  to  you  ?  Stephen 
Brant — yes  I  remember  the  man — but  I  have  heard  nothing 
for  years  and  years — no,  nothing.  See,  here  are  my  after- 
noon's  letters." 

He  took  a  bundle  of  letters  out  of  his  pocket  and  showed 


SCAW  HOUSE  169, 

them  to  Peter.  The  boy  found  the  one  in  Stephen's  hand- 
writing. 

"  You  may  read  it/'  said  Mr.  Zanti  smiling.  Peter  read  it. 
He  could  not  understand  it  and  it  was  signed  "  John  Sim- 
mons "...  but  it  was  certainly  in  Stephen's  handwriting. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Peter  in  rather  a  quivering  voice  and 
he  turned  away,  gulping  down  his  disappointment. 

Mr.  Zanti  patted  him  on  the  shoulder. 

"  That's  right,  my  boy.  Ah,  I  expect  you  miss  your 
friend.  You  will  be  lonely  here,  yes?  Well — see — now 
that  you  have  been  here  a  few  days  perhaps  it  is  time  for 
you  to  find  a  place  to  live — and  I  have  talked  wiz  a  friend 
of  mine,  a  ver'  good  friend  who  'as  lived  for  many  years  in 
a  'ouse  where  'e  says  there  is  a  room  that  will  just  do  for  you 
■ — cheap,  pleasant  people  .  .  .  yes  ?  To-morrow  'e  will  show 
you  the  place.     There  you  will  'ave  friends — " 

Peter  smiled,  thanked  Mr.  Zanti  and  went  to  bed.  But 
his  dreams  were  confused  that  night.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
London  was  a  huge  room  with  closing  walls,  and  that  ever 
they  came  closer  and  closer  and  that  he  screamed  for  Stephen 
and  they  would  not  let  Stephen  come  to  him. 

And  bells  were  ringing,  and  Mr.  Zanti,  with  a  lighted 
candle  in  his  hands,  was  creeping  down  those  dark  stairs 
that  led  to  the  kitchen,  and  he  might  have  stopped  those 
closing  walls  but  he  would  not.  Then  suddenly  Peter  was 
running  down  the  Sea  Road  above  Treliss  and  the  waves 
were  sounding  furiously  below  him — his  father  was  there 
waiting  for  him,  sternly,  at  the  road's  end  and  Herr  Gott- 
fried with  a  Homer  in  one  hand  and  his  blue  shoes  in  the 
other  was  watching  them  out  of  his  bright  eyes.  His  father 
was  waiting  to  kill  him  and  Mrs.  Pascoe  was  at  his  elbow. 
Peter  screamed,  the  sweat  was  pouring  off  his  forehead,  his 
throat  was  tight  with  agony  when  suddenly  by  his  side  was 
old  Frosted  Moses,  with  his  flowing  beard.  "  It  isn't  life 
that  matters,"  he  was  whispering  in  his  old  cracked  voice, 
"  but  the  courage  that  you  bring  to  it." 

The  figures  faded,  the  light  grew  broader  and  broader, 
and  Peter  woke  to  find  Mr.  Zanti,  by  the  aid  of  a  candle, 
climbing  into  bed. 

But  some  time  passed  before  he  had  courage  to  fall  asleep 
again. 


CHAPTER  XII 

BROCKETT'S:  ITS  CHARACTER,   AND   ESPECIALLY 
MRS.  BROCKETT 


ON  the  next  afternoon  about  six  o'clock,  Mr.  Zanti,  ac- 
companied by  the  languid  and  shabby  gentleman  whom 
Peter  had  noticed  before,  appeared  in  the  shop. 

"  Signor  Rastelli,"  said  Mr.  Zanti,  and  the  languid  gen- 
tleman shook  hands  with  Peter  as  though  he  were  conferring 
a  great  benefit  upon  him  and  he  hoped  Peter  wouldn't  forget 
it 

"  Zis,"  said  Mr.  Zanti,  "  is  my  young  friend,  Peter  West- 
cott,  whom  I  love  as  if  'e  were  my  own  son — Signor  Ras- 
telli," he  continued,  turning  to  Peter,  "  I've  known  him  for 
very  many  years  and  I  can  only  say  zat  ze  longer  I  'ave 
known  him  ze  more  admirable  I  'ave  thought  'im." 

The  gentleman  took  off  his  tall  hat,  stroked  it,  put  it  on 
again  and  looked,  with  his  languid  eyes,  at  Peter. 

"  And,"  continued  Mr.  Zanti,  cheerfully,  conscious  per- 
haps that  he  was  carrying  all  the  conversation  on  his  own 
shoulders,  "  'e  will  take  you  to  a  'ouse  where  *e  has  been 
for — 'ow  many  years,  Signor  ?  " 

"  Ten,"  said  that  gentleman. 

"  For  ten  years — every  comfort.  Zere's  a  little  room  'e 
tells  me  where  you  will  be  'appy — and  all  your  food  and 
friendship  for  one  pound  a  week.  There ! "  he  ended 
triumphantly. 

"  Thank  you  very  much,"  said  Peter,  but  he  did  not  al- 
together like  the  look  of  the  seedily  dressed  gentleman,  and 
would  much  rather  have  stayed  with  Mr.  Zanti. 

He  had  packed  his  black  bag  in  readiness,  and  now  he 
fetched  it  and,  after  promising  to  be  in  the  shop  at  half- 
past  eight  the  next  morning,  started  off  with  his  melancholy 
guide. 

The  lamps  were  coming  out,  and  a  silence  that  often  falls 
upon  London  just  before  sunset  had  come  down  upon  the 

160 


SCAW  HOUSE  161 

traffic  and  the  people.  Windows  caught  the  departing  flame, 
held  it  for  an  instant,  and  sank  into  grey  twilight. 

"  I  know  what  you're  thinking  about  me,"  Peter's  com- 
panion suddenly  said  (he  was  walking  very  fast  as  though 
trying  to  catch  something),  "I  know  you  don't  like  me.  I 
could  see  it  at  once — I  never  made  a  mistake  about  those 
things.  You  were  saying  to  yourself :  '  What  does  that  hor- 
rible, over-dressed  stranger  want  to  come  interfering  with 
me  for  ^  '  " 

"  Indeed,  I  wasn't,"  said  Peter,  breathlessly,  because  the 
bag  was  so  heavy  and  they  were  walking  so  fast. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  were.  Never  mind.  I'm  not  a  popular 
man,  and  when  you  know  me  better  you'll  like  me  still  less. 
That's  always  the  way  I  affect  people.  And  always  with 
the  best  intentions.  And  you  were  thinking,  too,  that  you 
never  saw  anything  less  Italian  than  I  am,  and  you're  sure 
my  name's  Brown  or  Smith,  and  indeed  it's  true  that  I  was 
born  in  Clapham,  but  my  parents  were  Italians — refugees, 
you  know,  although  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  from — and 
every  one  calls  me  the  Signor,  and  so  there  you  are — and 
I  don't  see  how  I'm  to  help  it.  But  that's  just  me  all  over 
— always  fighting  against  the  tide  but  I  don't  complain,  I'm 
sure."  All  this  said  very  rapidly  and  in  a  melancholy  way 
as  though  tears  were  not  very  far  off.  Then  he  suddenly 
added : 

"  Let  me  carry  your  bag  for  you." 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  Peter,  laughing,  "  I  can  manage 
it" 

"  Ah,  well,  you  look  strong,"  said  the  Signor  ap- 
preciatively. "  I  envy  you,  I'm  sure — ^never  had  a  day's 
health  myself — but  I  don't  complain." 

By  this  time  they  had  passed  the  British  Museum  and 
were  entering  into  the  shadows  of  Bloomsbury.  At  this 
hour,  when  the  lamps  and  the  stars  are  coming  out,  and 
the  sun  is  going  in,  Bloomsbury  has  an  air  of  melancholy 
that  is  peculiarly  its  own.  The  dark  grey  houses  stand  as 
a  perpetual  witness  of  those  people  that  have  found  life 
too  hard  for  them  and  have  been  compelled  to  give  in.  The 
streets  of  those  melancholy  squares  seen  beneath  flickering 
lamp  light  and  a  wan  moon  protest  against  all  gaiety  of 
spirit  and  urge  resignation  and  a  mournful  acquiescence. 


162  FORTITUDE 

Bloomsbury  is  Life  on  Thirty  Sliillings  a  week  without  the 
drama  of  starvation  or  the  tragedy  of  the  Embankment, 
but  with  all  the  ignominy  of  making  ends  meet  under  the 
stern  and  relentless  eye  of  a  boarding-house  keeper. 

But  of  all  the  sad  and  unhappy  squares  in  Bloomsbury 
the  saddest  is  Bennett  Square.  It  is  shut  in  by  all  the  other 
Bloomsbury  Squares  and  is  further  than  any  of  them  from 
the  lights  and  traffic  of  popular  streets.  There  are  only 
four  lamp  posts  there — one  at  each  corner — and  between 
these  patches  of  light  everything  is  darkness  and  desola- 
tion. 

Every  house  in  Bennett  Square  is  a  boarding-house,  and 
No.  72  is  Brockett's. 

"  Mrs.  Brockett  is  a  very  terrifying  but  lovable  woman," 
said  the  Signor  darkly,  and  Peter,  whose  spirits  had  sunk 
lower  and  ever  lower  as  he  stumbled  through  the  dark 
streets,  felt,  at  the  sound  of  this  threatening  prophecy,  en- 
tirely miserable. 

No.  72  is  certainly  the  giimiest  of  the  houses  in  Bennett 
Square.  It  is  tall  and  built  of  that  grey  stone  that  takes 
the  mind  of  the  observer  back  to  those  school  precincts  of 
his  youth.  It  is  a  thin  house,  not  broad  and  fat  and  com- 
fortably bulging,  but  rather  flinging  a  spiteful  glance  at 
the  house  that  squeezed  it  in  on  either  side.  It  is  like  a 
soured,  elderly  caustic  old  maid,  unhappy  in  its  own  ex- 
periences and  determined  to  make  every  one  else  unhappy  in 
theirs.  Peter,  of  course,  did  not  see  these  things,  because 
it  was  very  dark,  but  he  wished  he  had  not  come. 

The  Signor  had  a  key  of  his  own  and  Peter  was  soon 
inside  a  hall  that  smelt  of  oilcloth  and  the  cooking  of  beef; 
the  gas  was  burning,  but  the  only  things  that  really  bene- 
fited from  its  light  were  a  long  row  of  mournful  black  coats 
that  hung  against  the  wall. 

Peter  sneezed,  and  was  suddenly  conscious  of  an  enor- 
mous woman  whom  he  knew  by  instinct  to  be  Mrs.  Brockett. 
She  was  truly  enormous — she  stood  facing  him  like  some 
avenging  Fate.  She  had  the  body  of  a  man — flat,  straight, 
broad.  Her  black  hair,  carefully  parted  down  the  middle, 
was  brushed  back  and  bound  into  hard  black  coils  low  down 
over  the  neck.  She  stood  there,  looking  down  on  them, 
ber  arms  akimbo^  her  legs  apart.     Her  eyes  were  black 


SCAW  HOUSE  163 

and  deep  set,  her  cheek  bones  very  prominent,  her  nose 
thin  and  sharp;  her  black  dress  caught  in  a  little  at  the 
waist,  fell  otherwise  in  straight  folds  to  her  feet.  There 
was  a  faint  moustache  on  her  upper  lip,  her  hands,  with  long 
white  slender  fingers,  were  beautiful,  lying  straight  by  her 
side,  against  the   stuff  of  her  dress. 

"  Well  ?  "  she  said — and  her  voice  was  deep  like  a  man's< 
"  Good  evening,  Signor." 

"  Good  evening,  Madame."  He  took  off  his  hat  and  gave 
her  a  deep  bow.  "  This  is  the  young  gentleman,  Mr. 
Westcott,  of  whom  I  spoke  to  you  this  morning." 

"  Well — how  are  you,  Mr.  Westcott }  "  Her  words  were 
sharply  clipped  and  had  the  resonance  of  coins  as  they  rang 
in  the  air. 

"  Quite  well,  thank  you,"  said  Peter,  and  he  noticed,  in 
spite  of  his  dismay  at  her  appearance,  that  the  clasp  of  her 
hand  was  strong  and  friendly. 

"  Florence  will  show  you  your  room,  Mr.  Westcott.  It 
is  a  pound  a  week  including  your  meals  and  attendance  and 
the  use  of  the  general  sitting-room.  If  you  do  not  like  it 
you  must  tell  me  and  we  will  wish  one  another  good  evening. 
If  you  do  like  it  I  shall  do  my  best  to  make  you  comfort- 
able." 

Peter  found  afterwards  that  this  was  her  invariable  man- 
ner of  addressing  a  new-comer.  It  could  scarcely  be  called 
a  warm  welcome.  She  turned  and  called,  "  Florence !  "  and 
a  maid-servant,  diminutive  in  size  but  spotless  in  appearance, 
suddenly  appeared  from  nowhere  at  all,  as  it  seemed  to 
Peter. 

He  followed  this  girl  up  many  flights  of  stairs.  On  every 
side  of  him  were  doors  and,  once  and  again,  gas  flared  above 
him.  It  was  all  very  cold,  and  gusts  of  wind  passed  up 
and  down,  whisking  in  and  out  of  the  oilcloth,  and  Peter 
thought  that  he  had  never  seen  so  many  closed  doors  in  his 
life. 

At  last  they  came  to  an  end  of  the  stairs  and  there  with  a 
skylight  covering  the  passage  outside  was  his  room.  It  was 
certainly  small  and  the  window  looked  out  on  a  dismal  little 
piece  of  garden  far  below  and  a  great  number  of  roofs  and 
chimneys  and  at  last  a  high  dome  rising  like  a  black  cloud 
in  the  farther  distance.     It  was  spotlessly  clean. 


164  FORTITUDE 

"  I  think  it  will  do  very  well,  thank  you,"  said  Peter  and 
be  put  down  his  black  bag. 

*'  Do  you?  "  said  the  maid.  "  There's  a  bell,"  she  said, 
pointing,  "  and  the  meal's  at  seving  sharp."  She  disap- 
peared. 

He  spent  the  time,  very  cheerfully,  taking  the  things  out 
of  the  black  bag  and  arranging  them.  He  had  suddenly, 
as  was  natural  in  him,  forgotten  the  dismal  approach  to  the 
house,  the  overwhelming  appearance  of  Mrs.  Brockett,  his 
recent  loneliness.  Here,  at  last,  was  a  little  spot  that  he 
could,  for  a  time,  at  any  rate,  call  his  own.  He  could  come, 
at  any  time  of  the  evening  and  shut  his  door,  and  be  alone 
here,  master  of  everything  that  he  surveyed.  Perhaps — and 
the  thought  sent  the  blood  to  his  cheeks — it  was  here  that 
he  would  write!  He  looked  about  the  room  lovingly.  It 
was  quite  bare  except  for  the  bed,  the  washing  stand  and  a 
chair,  and  there  was  no  fire-place.  But  he  arranged  the 
books,  David  Copperfield,  Don  Quixote,  Henry  Lessingham, 
The  Roads,  The  Downs,  on  the  window  sill,  and  the  little 
faded  photograph  of  his  mother  on  the  ledge  above  the  wash- 
ing basin.  He  had  scarcely  finished  doing  these  things 
when  there  was  a  tap  on  his  door.  He  opened  it,  and  found 
the  Signor,  no  longer  in  a  tail-coat,  but  in  a  short,  faded  blue 
jacket  that  made  him  look  shabbier  than  ever. 

"Excuse — not  intruding,  I  hope?"  He  looked  gloomily 
round  the  room.     "Everything  all  right?" 

"  Very  nice,"  said  Peter. 

"  Ah,  you'll  like  it  at  first — but  never  mind.  Wonderful 
woman,  Mrs.  Brockett.  I  expect  you  were  alarmed  just 
now." 

"  I  was,  a  little,"  admitted  Peter. 

"  Ah,  well,  we  all  are  at  first.  But  you'll  get  over  that, 
you'll  love  her — every  one  loves  her.  By  the  way,"  he 
pushed  his  hand  through  his  hair,  "  what  I  came  about  was 
to  tell  you  that  we  all  foregather — as  you  might  say — in  the 
sitting-room  before  dinner — yes — and  I'd  like  to  introduce 
you  to  my  wife,  the  Signora — not  Italian,  you  know — but 
you'll  like  her  better  than  me — every  one's  agreed  that  hers 
is  a  nicer  character." 

Peter,  trembling  a  little  at  the  thought  of  more  strangers, 
followed  the  Signor  downstairs  and  found,  in  the  middle  of 


SCAW  HOUSE  165 

one  of  the  dark  landings,  looking  as  though  she  had  been 
left  there  by  some  one  and  completely  forgotten,  a  little  wisp 
of  a  woman  with  bright  yellow  hair  and  a  straw  coloured 
dress,  and  this  was  the  Signora.  This  lady  shook  hands 
with  him  in  a  frightened  tearful  way  and  made  choking 
noises  all  the  way  downstairs,  and  this  distressed  Peter 
very  much  until  he  discovered  that  she  had  a  passion  for 
cough  drops,  which  she  kept  in  her  pocket  in  a  httle  tin 
box  and  sucked  perpetually.  The  Signor  drove  his  wife 
and  Peter  before  him  into  the  sitting-room.  This  was  a 
very  brightly-coloured  room  with  any  number  of  brilliant 
purple  vases  on  the  mantelpiece,  a  pink  wall-paper,  a  great 
number  of  shining  pictures  in  the  most  splendid  gilt  frames, 
and  in  the  middle  of  the  room  a  bright  green  settee  with  red 
cushions  on  it.  On  this  settee,  which  was  round,  with  a 
space  in  the  middle  of  it,  like  a  circus,  several  persons  were 
seated,  but  there  was  apparently  no  conversation.  They  all 
looked  up  at  the  opening  of  the  door,  and  Peter  was  so 
dazzled  by  the  bright  colour  of  the  room  that  it  was  some 
time  before  he  could  collect  his  thoughts. 

But  the  Signor  beckoned  to  him,  and  he  followed. 

"  Allow  me,  Mrs.  Monogue,"  said  the  Signor,  "  to  intro- 
duce to  you  Mr.  Peter  Westcott."  The  lady  in  question 
was  stout,  red-faced,  and  muffled  in  shawls.  She  extended 
him  a  haughty  finger. 

There  followed  then  Miss  Norah  Monogue,  a  girl  with 
a  pleasant  smile  and  untidy  hair.  Miss  Dall,  a  lady  with 
a  very  stiff  back,  a  face  like  an  interrogation  mark,  because 
her  eyebrows  went  up  in  a  point  and  a  very  tight  black 
dress,  Mr.  Herbert  Crumley,  and  Mr.  Peter  Crumley,  two 
short,  thin  gentlemen  with  wizened  and  anxious  faces  (they 
were  obviously  brothers,  because  they  were  exactly  alike), 
and  Mrs.  and  Mr.  Tressiter,  two  pleasant-faced,  cheerful 
people,  who  sat  very  close  together  as  though  they  were 
cold. 

All  these  people  shook  hands  agreeably  with  Peter,  but 
made  no  remarks,  and  he  stood  awkwardly  looking  at  the 
purple  vases  and  wishing  that  something  would  happen. 

Something  did  happen.  The  door  was  very  softly  and 
slowly  opened,  and  a  little  woman  came  hurrying  in.  She 
had  white  hair,  and  glasses  were  dangling  on  the  end  of  her 


166  FORTITUDE 

nose,  and  she  wore  a  very  old  and  shabby  black  silk  dress. 
She  looked  round  with  an  agitated  air. 

"  I  don't  know  why  it  is,"  she  said,  with  a  little  chirrup, 
like  a  bird's,  "  but  I'm  alrvays  late — always!  " 

Then  she  did  an  amazing  thing.  She  walked  to  the  green 
settee  and  sat  down  between  Miss  Dall,  the  lady  with  the 
tight  dress,  and  Mrs.  Monogue.  She  then  took  out  of 
one  pocket  an  orange  and  out  of  another  a  piece  of  news- 
paper. 

"  I  must  have  my  orange,  you  know,"  she  said,  looking 
gaily  round  on  every  one. 

She  spread  the  newspaper  on  her  knee,  and  then  peeled 
the  orange  very  slowly  and  with  great  care.  The  silence 
was  maintained — no  one  spoke.  Then  suddenly  the  Signor 
darted  forward:  "Oh,  Mrs.  Lazarus  I  must  introduce  you 
to  Madame's  new  guest,  Mr.  Westcott." 

"  How  do  you  do .''  "  the  old  lady  chirruped.  "  Oh !  but 
my  fingers  are  all  over  orange — never  mind,  we'll  smile  at 
one  another.  I  hope  you'll  like  the  place,  I'm  sure.  I 
always  have  an  orange  before  dinner.  They've  got  used  to 
me,  you  know.     We've  all  got  our  httle  habits." 

Peter  did  not  know  wliat  to  say,  and  was  wondering 
whether  he  ought  to  relieve  the  old  lady  of  her  orange  peel 
(at  which  she  was  gazing  rather  helplessly),  when  a  bell 
rang  and  Florence  appeared  at  the  door. 

"  Dinner !  "  she  said,  laconically. 

A  procession  was  formed,  Mrs.  Monogue,  with  her  shawls 
sweeping  behind  her,  sailed  in  front,  and  Peter  brought  up 
the  rear.  Mrs.  Lazarus  put  the  orange  peel  into  the  news- 
paper and  placed  it  all  carefully  in  her  pocket. 

Mrs.  Brockett  was  sitting,  more  like  a  soldier  than  ever, 
at  the  head  of  the  table.  Mutton  was  in  front  of  her,  and 
there  seemed  to  be  nothing  on  the  table  cloth  but  cruets  and 
three  dusty  and  melancholic  palms.  Peter  found  that  he 
was  sitting  between  Mrs.  Lazarus  and  Miss  Dall,  and  that 
he  was  not  expected  to  talk.  It  was  apparent  indeed  that 
the  regularity  with  which  every  one  met  every  one  at  this 
hour  of  the  day,  during  months  and  months  of  the  year 
negatived  any  polite  necessity  of  cordiality  or  genial  spirits. 
When  any  one  spoke  it  was  crossly  and  in  considerable 
irritation,  and  although  the  food  was  consumed  with  grea^ 


SCAW  HOUSE  167 

eagerness  on  everybody's  part,  the  faces  of  the  company 
were  obviously  anxious  to  express  the  fact  that  the  food 
was  worse  than  ever,  and  they  wouldn't  stand  it  another 
minute.  They  all  did  stand  it,  however,  and  Peter  thought 
that  they  were  all,  secretly,  rather  happy  and  contented. 
During  most  of  the  meal  no  one  spoke  to  him,  and  as  he 
was  very  hungry  this  did  not  matter.  Opposite  him,  all 
down  the  side  of  the  room,  were  dusty  grey  pillars,  and  be- 
tween these  pillars  heavy  dark  green  curtains  were  hanging. 
This  had  the  effect  of  muffling  and  crushing  the  conversation 
and  quite  forbidding  anybody  to  be  cheerful  in  any  cir- 
cumstances. Mrs.  Lazarus  indeed  chirruped  along  comfort- 
ably and  happily  for  the  most  part  to  herself — as,  for  in- 
stance, "  I  am  orangy,  but  then  I  was  late  and  couldn't  finish 
it.  Dear  me,  it's  mutton  again.  I  really  must  tell  Madame 
about  it  and  there's  nothing  so  nice  as  beef  and  Yorkshire 
pudding,  is  there,'*  Dear  me,  would  you  mind,  young  man, 
just  asking  Dear  Miss  Dall  to  pass  the  salt  spoon.  She's 
left  that  behind.     I  have  the  salt-cellar,  thank  you." 

She  also  hummed  to  herself  at  times  and  made  her  bread 
into  little  hard  pellets,  which  she  flicked  across  the  table  with 
her  thumb  at  no  one  in  particular  and  in  sheer  absence  of 
mind.  The  two  Mr.  Crumleys  were  sitting  opposite  to  her, 
and  they  accepted  the  little  charge  of  shot  with  all  the 
placid  equanimity  bred  of  ancient  custom. 

Peter  noticed  other  things.  He  noticed  that  Mrs.  Mon- 
ogue  was  an  exceedingly  ill-tempered  and  selfish  woman,  and 
that  she  bullied  the  pleasant  girl  with  the  untidy  hair 
throughout  the  meal,  and  that  the  girl  took  it  all  in  the 
easiest  possible  way.  He  noticed  that  Mrs.  Brockett  dealt 
with  each  of  her  company  in  turn — one  remark  apiece,  and 
always  in  that  stern,  deep  voice  with  the  strangely  beautiful 
musical  note  in  it.  To  himself  she  said :  "  Well,  Mr.  West- 
cott,  I'm  pleased,  I'm  sure,  that  everything  is  to  your  satis- 
faction," and  listened  gravely  to  his  assurance.  To  Miss 
Dall:  "Well,  Miss  Dall,  I  looked  at  the  book  you  lent  me 
and  couldn't  find  any  sense  in  it,  I'm  afraid."  To  Mrs. 
Tressiter:  "I  had  little  Minnie  with  me  for  half  an  hour 
this  evening,  and  I'm  sure  a  better  behaved  child  never 
breathed  "...  and  so  on. 

Once  Miss  Dall  turned  upon  him  sharply  with:  "I  suj)- 


168  FORTITUDE 

pose  you  never  go  and  hear  the  Rev.  Mr.  M.  J.  Valdwell  ?  " 
and  Peter  had  to  confess  ignorance. 

"  Really !  Well,  it  'ud  do  you  young  men  a  world  of 
good." 

He  assured  her  that  he  would  go. 

"  I  will  lend  you  a  volume  of  his  sermons  if  you  would 
care  to  read  them." 

Peter  said  that  he  would  be  delighted.  The  meal  was 
soon  over,  and  every  one  returned  to  the  sitting-room.  They 
sat  about  in  a  desolate  way,  and  Peter  discovered  afterwards 
that  Mrs.  Brockett  liked  every  one  to  be  there  together  for 
half  an  hour  to  encourage  friendly  relations.  That  object 
could  scarcely  be  said  to  be  achieved,  because  there  was  very 
little  conversation  and  many  anxious  glances  were  flung  at 
the  clocks.  Mrs.  Brockett,  however,  sat  sternly  in  a  chair 
and  sewed,  and  no  one  ventured  to  leave  the  room. 

One  pleasant  thing  happened.  Peter  was  standing  by  the 
window  turning  over  some  fashion  papers  of  an  ancient  date, 
when  he  saw  that  Miss  Monogue  was  at  his  elbow.  Now 
that  she  was  close  to  him  he  observed  that  she  looked  thin 
and  delicate;  her  dress  was  worn  and  old-fashioned,  she 
looked  as  though  she  ought  to  be  wrapped  up  warmly  and 
taken  care  of — but  her  eyes  were  large  and  soft  and  grey, 
and  although  her  wrists  looked  strangely  white  and  sharp 
through  her  black  dress  her  hands  were  beautiful.  Her 
voice  was  soft  with  an  Irish  brogue  lingering  pleasantly 
amongst  her  words: 

"  I  hope  that  you  will  like  being  here." 

*'  I'm  sure  I  shall,"  he  said,  smiling.  He  felt  grateful 
to  her  for  talking  to  him. 

"  You're  very  fortunate  to  have  come  to  Mrs.  Brockett's 
straight  away.  You  mayn't  think  so  now,  because  Mrs. 
Brockett  is  alarming  at  first,  and  we  none  of  us — "  she 
looked  round  her  with  a  little  laugh — "  can  strike  the  on- 
looker as  very  cheerful  company.  But  really  Madame  has 
a  heart  of  gold — you'll  find  that  out  in  time.  She's  had  a 
terribly  hard  time  of  it  herself,  and  I  believe  it's  a  great 
struggle  to  keep  things  going  now.  But  she's  helped  all 
kinds  of  people  in  her  time." 

Peter  looked,  with  new  eyes,  at  the  lady  so  sternly  sewing. 

"  You  don't  know,"  Miss  Monogue  went  on  in  her  soft. 


I 


SCAW  HOUSE  169 

pleasant  voice,  "  how  horrible  these  boarding-houses  can  be. 
Mother  and  I  have  tried  a  good  many.  But  here  people 
stay  for  ever — a  pretty  good  testimony  to  it,  I  think  .  .  . 
and  then,  you  know,  she  never  lets  any  one  stay  here  if 
she  doesn't  hke  them — so  that  prevents  scoundrels.  There've 
been  one  or  two,  but  she's  always  found  them  out  .  .  .  and 
I  believe  she  keeps  old  Mrs.  Lazarus  quite  free  of  charge." 

She  paused,  and  then  she  added: 

"  And  there's  no  one  here  who  hasn't  found  life  pretty 
hard.  That  gives  us  a  kind  of  freemasonry,  you  know. 
The  Tressiters,  for  instance,  they  have  three  children,  and 
he  has  been  out  of  work  for  months — sometimes  there's  such 
a  frightened  look  in  her  eyes  .  .  .  but  you  mustn't  think 
that  we're  melancholy  here,"  she  went  on  more  happily. 
"  We  get  a  lot  of  happiness  out  of  it  all." 

He  looked  at  her,  and  remembering  Mrs.  Monogue  at  din- 
ner and  seeing  now  how  delicate  the  girl  looked,  thought 
that  she  must  have  a  very  considerable  amount  of  pluck 
on  her  own  account. 

"And  you.''"  she  said.  "Have  you  only  just  come  up 
to  London .''  " 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  I'm  in  a  bookseller's  shop — a 
second-hand  bookseller's.  I've  only  been  in  London  a  few 
days — it's  all  very  exciting  for  me — and  a  little  confusing 
at  present." 

"  I'm  sure  you'll  get  on,"  she  said.  "  You  look  so  strong 
and  confident  and  happy.  I  envy  you  your  strength — one 
can  do  so  much  if  one's  got  that." 

He  felt  almost  ashamed  of  his  rough  suit,  his  ragged  build. 
"  Well,  I've  always  been  in  the  country,"  he  said,  a  little 
apologetically,     "  I  expect  London  will  change  that." 

Then  there  came  across  the  room  Mrs.  Monogue's  sharp 
voice.     "  Norah !  Norah !  I  want  you." 

She  left  him. 

That  night  in  his  little  room,  he  looked  from  his  window 
at  the  sea  of  black  roofs  that  stretched  into  the  sky  and 
found  in  their  ultimate  distance  the  wonderful  sweep  of 
stars  that  domed  them;  a  great  moon,  full-rounded,  dull 
gold,  staring  like  a  huge  eye,  above  them.  His  heart  was 
full.  A  God  there  must  be  somewhere  to  have  given  him 
all  this  splendour — a  splendour  surely  for  him  to  work  upon. 


170  FORTITUDE 

He  felt  as  a  craftsman  feels,  when  some  new  and  wonderful 
tools  have  been  given  to  him;  as  a  woman  feels  the  child  in 
her  womb,  stirring  mysteriously,  moving  her  to  deep  and 
glad  thankfulness,  so  now,  with  the  night  wind  blowing 
about  him,  and  all  London  lying,  dark  and  motionless,  below 
him,  he  felt  the  first  stirring  of  his  power.  This  was  his 
to  work  with,  this  was  his  to  praise  and  glorify  and  make 
beautiful — now  crude  and  formless — a  seed  dark  and  with- 
out form  or  colour — one  day  to  make  one  more  flower  in 
that  garden  that  God  has  given  his  servants  to  work  in. 

He  did  not,  at  this  instant,  doubt  that  some  God  was 
there,  crying  to  him,  and  that  he  must  answer.  Of  that 
moon,  of  those  stars,  of  that  mighty  city,  he  would  make 
one  little  stone  that  might  be  added  to  that  Eternal  Temple 
of  Beauty.  .  .  . 

He  turned  from  his  window  and  thought  of  other  things. 
He  thought  of  his  father  and  Scaw  House,  of  the  windy  day 
when  his  mother  was  buried,  of  Mr.  Zanti  and  Stephen's 
letter,  of  Herr  Gottfried  and  his  blue  slippers,  of  this  house 
and  its  people,  of  the  friendly  girl  and  her  grey  eyes  .  .  . 
finally,  for  a  little,  of  himself — of  his  temper  and  his  am- 
bitions and  his  selfishness.  Here,  indeed,  suddenly  jumping 
out  at  him,  was  the  truth. 

He  felt,  as  he  got  into  bed,  that  he  would  have  to  change 
a  great  deal  if  he  were  to  write  that  great  book  that  he 
thought  of:  "  Little  Peter  Westcott."  London  seemed  to 
say,  "  there's  lots  to  be  done  to  you  first  before  you're  worth 
anything  .  .  .  I'll  batter  at  you." 

Well,  let  it,  he  thought,  sleepily.  There  was  nothing  that 
he  would  like  better.  He  tumbled  into  sleep,  with  London 
after  him,  and  Fame  in  front  of  him,  and  a  soft  and 
resonant  murmur,  as  of  a  slumbering  giant,  rising  to  hia 
open  window. 


BOOK  II 
I-HE  BOOKSHOB 


CHAPTER  I 
"REUBEN  HALLARD- 


THERE  is  a  story  in  an  early  volume  of  Henry  Galleon's 
about  a  man  who  caught — as  he  may  have  caught  other 
sicknesses  in  his  time — the  disease  of  the  Terror  of  London. 
Eating  his  breakfast  cheerfully  in  his  luxurious  chambers 
in  Mayfair,  in  the  act  of  pouring  his  coffee  out  of  his 
handsome  silver  coffee-pot,  he  paused.  It  was  the  very 
slightest  thing  that  held  his  attention — the  noise  of  the 
rumbling  of  the  traffic  down  Piccadilly — but  he  was 
startled  and,  on  that  morning,  he  left  his  breakfast  mi- 
finished.  He  had,  of  course,  heard  that  rumbling  traffic  on 
many  other  occasions — ^it  may  be  said  to  have  been  the 
musical  accompaniment  to  his  breakfast  for  many  years 
past.  But  on  this  morning  it  was  different;  as  one  has 
a  headache  before  scarlet  fever  so  did  this  young  man  hear 
the  rumble  of  the  traffic  down  Piccadilly.  He  listened  to 
it  very  attentively,  and  it  was,  he  told  himself,  very  like  the 
noise  of  some  huge  animal  breathing  in  its  sleep.  There 
was  a  regularity,  a  monotony  about  it  .  .  .  and  also  per- 
haps a  sense  of  great  force,  quiescent  now  and  held  in  re- 
straint. He  was  a  very  normal,  well-balanced  yoimg  man 
and  thoughts  of  this  kind  were  unlike  him. 

Then  he  heard  other  things — the  trees  rustling  in  the 
park,  bells  ringing  on  every  side  of  him,  builders  knocking 
and  hammering,  windows  rattling,  doors  opening  and  shut- 
ting. In  the  Club  one  evening  he  confided  in  a  friend.  "  I 
say,  it's  damned  funny — but  what  would  you  say  to  this  old 
place  being  alive,  taking  on  a  regular  existence  of  its  own, 
don't  you  know?  You  might  draw  it — ^a  great  beast  like 
some  old  alligator,  all  curled  up,  with  its  teeth  and  things — 
making  a  noise  a  bit  as  it  moves  about  .  .  .  and  then,  one 
day  when  it's  got  us  nicely  all  on  top  of  It,  down  it  will 
bring  us  all,  houses  and  the  rest.  Damned  funny  idea, 
what.^     Do  for  a  cartoon-fellow  or  some  one — " 

173 


174  FORTITUDE 

The  disease  developed;  he  had  it  very  badly,  but  at  first 
his  friends  did  not  know.  He  lay  awjike  at  night  hearing 
things — one  heard  much  more  at  night — sometimes  he  fancied 
that  the  ground  shook  xmder  his  feet — but  most  terrible  of 
all  was  it  when  there  was  perfect  silence.  The  traffic  ceased, 
the  trees  and  windows  and  doors  were  still  .  .  .  the  Creature 
was  listening.  Sometimes  he  read  in  papers  that  buildings 
had  suddenly  collapsed.  He  smiled  to  himself.  "  When 
■we  are  all  nicely  gathered  together,"  he  said,  "  when  there 
are  enough  people  .  .  .  then — " 

His  friends  said  that  he  had  a  nervous  breakdown;  they 
sent  him  to  a  rest-cure.  He  came  back.  The  Creature  was 
fascinating — he  was  terrified,  but  he  could  not  leave  it. 

He  knew  more  and  more  about  it;  he  knew  now  what  it 
was  like,  and  he  saw  its  eyes  and  he  sometimes  could  picture 
its  grey  scaly  back  with  churches  and  theatres  and  govern- 
ment  buildings  and  the  little  houses  of  Mr.  Smith  and  Mr. 
Jones  perched  upon  it — and  the  noises  that  it  made  now  were 
so  many  and  so  threatening  that  he  never  slept  at  all.  Then 
he  began  to  run,  shouting,  down  Piccadilly,  so  they  put  him 
— very  reluctantly — into  a  nice  Private  Asylum,  and  there 
he  died,  screaming.  This  story  is  a  prologue  to  Peter's  life 
in  London.  .  .  .  The  story  struck  his  fancy;  he  thought  of 
it  sometimes. 


On  a  late  stormy  afternoon  in  November,  1895,  Peter 
finished  his  book,  "  Reuben  Hallard."  It  had  been  raining 
all  day,  and  now  the  windows  were  blurred  and  the  sea  of 
shining  roofs  that  stretched  into  the  mist  emphasised  the 
dark  and  gloom  of  the  heavy  overhanging  sky. 

Peter's  httle  room  was  very  cold,  but  his  body  was  burn- 
ing— he  was  in  a  state  of  overpowering  excitement;  his  hands 
trembled  so  that  he  could  scarcely  hold  his  pen  ..."  So 
died  Reuben  Hallard,  a  fool  and  a  gentleman  " — and  then 
"  Finis  "  with  a  hard  straight  line  underneath  it.  .  .  .  He 
had  been  working  at  it  for  three  years,  and  he  had  been  in 
London  seven. 

He  walked  up  and  down  his  little  room,  he  was  so  hot 
that  he  flung  up  his  window  and  leaned  out  and  let  the 


THE  BOOKSHOP  176 

rain,  that  was  coming  down  fiercely  now,  lash  his  face. 
Mud!  London  was  full  of  mud.  He  could  see  it,  he 
fancied,  gathering  in  thick  brown  layers  upon  the  pavement, 
shining  and  glistening  as  it  mounted,  slipping  in  streams 
into  the  gutter,  sweeping  about  the  foundations  of  the  houses, 
climbing  perhaps,  one  day,  to  the  very  windows.  That  was 
London.  And  yet  he  loved  it,  London  and  its  dirt  and  dark- 
ness. Had  he  not  written  "  Reuben  Hallard  "  here !  Had 
the  place  not  taken  him  into  its  arms,  given  him  books  and 
leisure  out  of  its  hospitality,  treated  him  kindly  during  these 
years  so  that  they  had  fled  like  an  instant  of  time,  and  here 
he  was,  Peter  Westcott,  aged  twenty-five,  with  a  book  writ- 
ten, four  friends  made,  and  the  best  health  possible  to  man. 
The  book  was  "  Reuben  Hallard,"  the  friends  were  Mrs. 
Brockett,  Mr.  Zanti,  Herr  Gottfried,  and  Norah  Monogue, 
and  for  his  health  one  had  only  to  look  at  him! 

"  So  died  Reuben  Hallard,  a  fool  and  a  gentleman ! " 
His  excitement  was  tremendous ;  his  cheeks  were  flaming, 
his  eyes  glittering,  his  heart  beating.  Here  was  a  book 
written ! — so  many  pages  covered  with  so  much  writing,  his 
claim  to  be  somebody,  to  have  done  something,  justified  and, 
most  wonderful  of  all,  live,  exciting  people  created  by  him, 
Peter  Westcott.  He  did  not  think  now  of  publication,  of 
money,  of  fame — only,  after  sharing  for  three  years  in  the 
trials  and  adventures  of  dear,  beloved  souls,  now,  suddenly, 
he  emerged  cold,  breathless  .  .  .  alone  .  .  »  into  the  world 
again. 

Exciting!  Why,  furiously,  of  course.  He  could  have 
sung  and  shouted  and  walked,  right  over  the  tops  of  the 
roofs,  with  the  rain  beating  and  cooling  his  body,  out  into  the 
mist  of  the  horizon.  His  book,  "  Reuben  Hallard !  "  Lon- 
don was  swimming  in  thick  brown  mud,  and  the  four  lamps 
coming  out  in  Bennett  Square  in  a  dim,  sickly  fashion  and 
he,  Peter  Westcott,  had  written  a  book.  .  .  . 

The  Signor — the  same  Signor,  some  seven  years  older, 
a  little  shabbier,  but  nevertheless  the  same  Signor — came  to 
summon  him  to  supper. 

"  I  have  finished  it !  " 

"What!     The  book .>" 

"  Yes ! " 

Their  voices  were  awed  whispers.     The  whole  house  had 


1T«  FORTITUDE 

during  the  last  three  years  shared  in  the  fortunes  of  the 
book.  Peter  had  come  to  dinner  with  a  cloud  upon  his  brow 
— the  book  therefore  has  gone  badly — even  Mrs.  Brockett 
is  disturbed  and  Mrs.  Lazarus  is  less  chirpy  than  usual. 
Peter  comes  to  dinner  with  a  smile — the  book  therefore  has 
gone  well  and  even  Mrs.  Monogue  is  a  little  less  selfish 
than  ordinary.  The  Signor  now  gazed  round  the  little  room 
as  though  he  might  find  there  the  secret  of  so  great  an 
achievement.  On  Peter's  dressing-table  the  manuscript  was 
piled — "  You'll  miss  it,"  the  Signor  said,  gloomily.  "  You'll 
miss  it  very  much — you're  bound  to.  You'll  have  to  get  it 
typewritten,  and  that'll  cost  money." 

"  Never  mind,  it's  done,"  said  Peter,  shaking  his  head 
as  a  dog  shakes  himself  when  he  leaves  the  water.  "  There 
they  are,  those  people — and  now  I'm  going  to  wash." 

He  stripped  to  the  waist,  and  the  Signor  watched  his 
broad  back  and  strong  arms  with  a  sigh  for  his  own  feeble 
proportions.  He  wondered  how  it  was  that  being  in  a  stuffy 
bookshop  for  seven  years  had  done  Peter  no  harm,  he  won- 
dered how  he  could  keep  the  back  of  his  neck  so  brown  as 
that  in  London  and  his  cheeks  as  healthy  a  colour  and  his 
eyes  as  clear. 

"  I'm  amazingly  unpleasant  to  look  at,"  the  Signor  said 
at  last.  "  I  often  wonder  why  my  wife  married  me.  I'm 
not  surprised  that  every  one  finds  me  uninteresting.  I  am 
uninteresting." 

"  Well,  you  are  not  uninteresting  to  me,  I  can  tell  you," 
said  Peter.  He  had  put  on  a  soft  white  shirt,  a  black  tie, 
and  a  black  coat  and  trousers,  the  last  of  these  a  little  shiny 
perhaps  in  places,  but  neat  and  well  brushed,  and  you  would 
really  not  guess  when  you  saw  him,  that  he  only  possessed 
two  suits  in  the  wide  world. 

"  /  think  you're  absorbing,"  Peter  said,  a  little  patron- 
isingly  perhaps. 

"  Ah,  that  proves  nothing,"  the  Signor  retorted.  "  You 
only  care  for  fools  and  children — Mrs.  Brockett  always  says 
so." 

They  went  downstairs — Peter  was,  of  course,  not  hungry 
at  all,  but  the  conventions  had  to  be  observed.  In  the  sit- 
ting-room, round  about  the  green  settee,  the  company  was 
waiting  as  it  had  waited  seven  years  ago;  there  were  one  or 


THE  BOOKSHOP  ITT 

two  unimportant  additions  and  Mrs.  Monogue  had  died  the 
year  before  and  Mrs.  Lazarus  was  now  very  old  and  trem- 
bling, but  in  effect  there  was  very  little  change. 

"  He  has  finished  it,"  the  Signor  announced  in  a  won- 
dering whisper.  A  little  buzz  rose,  filled  the  air  for  a 
moment  and  then  sank  into  silence  again.  Mrs.  Lazarus 
was  without  her  orange  because  she  had  to  wear  mittens 
cow,  and  that  made  peeling  the  thing  difficult.  "  I'm  sure," 
she  said,  in  a  voice  like  that  of  a  very  excited  cricket,  "  that 
Mr.  Westcott  will  feel  better  after  he's  had  something  to 
eat.     I  always  do." 

This  remark  left  conversation  at  a  standstill.  The  rain 
drove  against  the  panes,  the  mud  rose  ever  higher  against 
the  walls,  and  dinner  was  announced.  Mrs.  Brockett  made 
her  remarks  to  each  member  of  the  company  in  turn  as 
usual.     To  Peter  she  said: 

"  I  hear  that  you  have  finished  your  book,  Mr.  Westcott. 
We  shall  all  watch  eagerly  for  its  appearance,  I'm  sure." 

He  felt  his  excitement  slipping  away  from  him  as  the 
moments  passed.  Suddenly  he  was  tired.  Instead  of 
elation  there  was  wonder,  doubt.  What  if,  after  all,  the 
book  should  be  very  bad  }  During  all  these  years  in  London 
he  had  thought  of  it,  during  all  these  years  he  had  known 
that  it  was  going  to  succeed.  What,  if  now  he  should  dis- 
cover suddenly  that  it  was  bad.''  .  .  .  Could  he  endure  it? 
The  people  of  his  book  seemed  now  to  stand  very  far  away 
from  him — they  were  unreal — he  could  remember  scenes, 
things  that  they  had  said  and  done,  absurd,  ignorant  things. 

He  began  to  feel  panic.  Why  should  he  imagine  that  he 
was  able  to  write.''  Of  course  it  was  all  crude,  worthless 
stuff.  He  looked  at  the  dingy  white  pillars  and  heavy  green 
curtains  with  a  kind  of  despair  ...  of  course  it  was  all 
bad.  He  had  been  hypnotised  by  the  thing  for  the  time 
being.  Then  he  caught  Norah  Monogue's  eyes  and  smiled. 
He  would  show  it  to  her,  and  she  would  tell  him  what  it  was 
worth. 

Poor  Mrs.  Tressiter's  baby  had  died  last  week  and  now, 
suddenly,  she  burst  out  crying  and  had  to  leave  the  room. 
There  was  a  little  twitter  of  sympathy.  How  good  they 
all  were  to  one  another,  these  people,  stupid  and  odd  per- 
haps in  some  ways,  but  so  brave  for  themselves  and  so  gen- 


178  FORTITUDE 

erous  to  one  another.     It  was  no  mean  gathering  of  souls 
that  Mrs.  Brockett's  dingy  gas  illuminated. 

Every  now  and  again  the  heavj'  curtains  blew  forward 
in  the  wind  and  the  gas  flared.  There  was  no  conversation, 
and  the  wind  could  be  heard  driving  the  rain  past  the  win- 
dows. 

HI 

Peter,  that  evening,  took  the  manuscript  of  "  Reuben  Hal- 
lard  "  into  Miss  Monogue's  room.  Since  her  mother  died 
Norah  Monogue  had  had  a  bed  sitting-room  to  herself.  The 
bed  was  hidden  by  a  high  screen,  the  wall  paper  was  a  dark 
green,  and  low  bookshelves,  painted  white,  ran  round  the 
room.  There  were  no  pictures  (she  always  said  that  until 
she  could  have  good  ones  she  wouldn't  have  any  at  all). 
There  were  some  brown  pots  and  vases  on  the  shelves  and  a 
"Writing-table  with  a  typewriter  by  the  window. 

WTien  Peter  came  in,  Norah  Monogue  was  sitting  in  a 
low  chair  over  a  rather  miserable  fire;  a  little  pool  of  light 
abo\'e  her  head  came  from  two  candles  on  the  mantelpiece — 
otherwise  the  room  was  in  darkness. 

"  Shall  I  turn  on  the  gas  ?  "  she  said,  when  she  saw  who 
it  was. 

"  No,  leave  it  as  it  is,  I  like  it."  He  sat  down  in  a  chair 
near  her  and  put  a  pile  of  manuscript  on  the  floor  beside 
him.  "  I've  brought  it  for  you  to  read,"  he  said,  "I'm 
frightened  about  it.  I  suddenly  think  it  is  the  most  rotten 
thing  that  ever  was  written."  He  had  become  very  intimate 
•with  her  during  these  seven  years.  At  first  he  had  admired 
her  because  she  behaved  so  splendidly  to  her  abominable 
mother — then  she  had  obviously  been  interested  in  him, 
had  talked  about  the  things  that  he  was  reading  and  his  life 
at  the  bookshop.  They  had  speedily  become  the  very  best 
of  friends,  and  she  understowl  friendship  he  thought  in  the 
right  way — as  though  she  had  herself  been  a  man.  And 
yet  she  was  with  that  completely  feminine,  a  woman  who 
had  known  struggle  from  the  beginning  and  would  know  it 
to  the  end;  but  her  personality — humorous,  pathetic,  under- 
standing— was  felt  in  her  presence  so  strongly  that  no  one 
ever  forgot  her  after  meeting  her.  Some  one  once  said  of 
bcr,  "  She's  the  nicest  ugly  woman  to  look  at  I've  ever  seen." 


THE  BOOKSHOP  179 

She  cared  immensely  about  her  appearance.  She  saved, 
through  blood  and  tears^  to  buy  clothes  and  then  always 
bought  the  wrong  ones.  She  had  perfect  taste  about  every- 
thing except  herself,  and  as  soon  as  it  touched  her  it  was 
villainous.  She  was  untidy ;  her  hair — streaked  already  with 
grey — was  never  in  its  place;  her  dress  was  generally  un- 
done at  the  back,  her  gloves  had  holes. 

Her  mother's  death  had  left  her  some  fifty  pounds  a  year 
and  she  earned  another  fifty  pounds  by  typewriting.  Un- 
tidy in  everything  else,  in  her  work  she  was  scrupulously 
neat.  She  had  had  a  story  taken  by  The  Green  Volume. 
Her  friends  belonged  (as  indeed  just  at  this  time  so  many* 
people  belonged)  to  the  Cult  of  the  Lily,  repeated  the 
witticisms  of  Oscar  Wilde  and  treasured  the  art  of  Mr. 
Aubrey  Beardsley.  Miss  Monogue  believed  in  the  move- 
ment and  rejected  the  affectations.  In  1895,  when  the  re- 
action began,  she  defended  her  old  giants,  but  looked  for- 
ward eagerly  to  new  ones.  She  worked  too  hard  to  have 
very  many  friends,  and  Peter  saved  her  from  hours  of  lone- 
liness. To  him  she  was  the  last  word  in  Criticism,  in  Liter- 
ature. He  would  have  liked  to  have  fashioned  "  Reuben 
Hallard  "  after  the  manner  of  The  Green  Volume,  but  now 
thought  sadly  that  it  was  as  unlike  that  manner  as  possible; 
that  is  why  he  was  afraid  to  bring  it  to  her. 

"  You  won't  like  it,"  he  said.  "  I  thought  for  a  moment 
I  had  done  something  fine  when  I  finished  it  this  afternoon, 
but  now  I  know  that  it's  bad.  It's  all  rough  and  crude. 
It's  terribly  disappointing." 

"  That's  all  right,"  she  answered  quietly.  "  We  won't 
say  any  more  about  it  until  I  have  read  it  —  then  we'll 
talk." 

They  were  silent  for  a  little.  He  was  feeling  unhappy 
and,  curiously  enough,  frightened.  He  would  have  liked  to 
jump  up  suddenly  and  shout,  "  Well,  what's  going  to  happen 
now.''  " — not  only  to  Norah  Monogue,  but  to  London,  to  all 
the  world.  The  work  at  the  book  had,  during  these  years, 
upheld  him  with  a  sense  of  purpose  and  aim.  Now,  feeling 
that  that  work  was  bad,  his  aim  seemed  wasted,  his  purpose 
gone.  Here  were  seven  years  gone  and  he  had  done  nothing 
— seen  nothing,  become  nothing.  What  was  his  future  to 
be?     Where  was  he  to  go?     What  to  do?     He  had  reasoned 


180  FORTITUDE 

blindly  to  himself  during  these  years,  that  "  Reuben  Hal- 
lard  "  would  make  his  fortune — now  that  seemed  the  very 
last  thing  it  would  do. 

"  I  know  what  you're  feeling,"  she  said,  "  now  that  the 
book's  done,  you're  wondering  what's  coming  next." 

"  It's  more  than  that.  I've  been  in  London  seven  years. 
Instead  of  writing  a  novel  that  no  one  will  want  to  read  I 
might  have  been  getting  my  foot  in.  I  might  at  any  rate 
have  been  learning  London,  finding  my  way  about.  Why," 
he  went  on,  excitedly,  "  do  you  know  that,  except  for  a 
walk  or  two  and  going  into  the  gallery  at  Covent  Garden 
once  or  twice  and  the  Proms  sometimes  and  meeting  some 
people  at  Herr  Gottfried's  once  or  twice  I've  spent  the  whole 
of  my  seven  years  between  here  and  the  bookshop — " 

"  You  mustn't  worry  about  that  It  was  quite  the  right 
thing  to  do.  You  must  remember  that  there  are  two  ways 
of  learning  things.  First  through  all  that  every  one  has 
written,  then  through  all  that  every  one  is  doing.  Up  to  now 
you've  been  studying  the  first  of  those  two.  Now  you're 
ready  to  take  part  in  all  the  hurly-burly,  and  you  will, 
London  will  fling  you  into  it  as  soon  as  you're  ready,  you 
can  be  sure." 

"  I've  been  awfully  happy  all  this  time,"  he  went  on,  re- 
flectively. "  Too  happy  I  expect,  I  never  thought  about 
anything  except  reading  and  writing  the  book,  and  talking 
to  you  and  Gottfried.     Now  things  will  begin  I  suppose." 

"  What  kind  of  things  ?  " 

"  Oh,  well,  it  isn't  likely  that  I'm  going  to  be  let  alone 
for  ever.  I've  never  told  you,  have  I,  about  my  life  before 
I  came  up  to  London  ?  " 

She  hesitated  a  little  before  she  answered.  "  No,  you've 
ne%'er  told  me  anything.  I  could  see,  of  course,  that  it 
hadn't  been  easy." 

"  How  could  you  see  that?  '* 

"  Well,  it  hadn't  been  easy  for  either  of  us.  That  made 
us  friends.  And  then  you  don't  look  like  a  person  who 
would  take  things  easily — ever.  Tell  me  about  your  early 
life  before  you  came  here,"  Norah  Monogue  said. 

She  watched  his  face  as  he  told  her.  She  had  found 
him  exceedingly  good  company  during  the  seven  years 
that  she   had  known   him.     They   had   slipped  into  their 


THE  BOOKSHOP  181 

friendship  so  easily  and  so  naturally  that  she  had  never 
taken  herself  to  task  about  it  in  any  way;  it  existed 
as  a  very  delightful  accompaniment  to  the  day's  worries  and 
disappointments.  She  suddenly  realised  now  with  a  little 
surprised  shock  how  bitterly  she  would  miss  it  all  were  it 
to  cease.  In  the  darkened  room^  with  the  storm  blowing 
outside,  she  felt  her  loneliness  with  an  acute  wave  of  emo- 
tion and  self-pity  that  was  very  unlike  her.  If  Peter  were 
to  go,  she  felt,  she  could  scarcely  endure  to  live  on  in  the 
dreary  building. 

Part  of  his  charm  from  the  beginning  had  been  that  he 
was  so  astoundingly  young,  part  of  his  interest  that  he 
could  be,  at  times,  so  amazingly  old.  She  felt  that  she  her- 
self could  be  equal  neither  to  his  youth  nor  his  age.  She 
was  herself  so  ordinary  a  person,  but  watching  him  made  the 
most  fascinating  occupation,  and  speculating  over  his  future 
made  the  most  wonderful  dreams.  That  he  was  a  personal- 
ity, that  he  might  do  anything,  she  had  always  believed,  but 
7  there  had,  until  now,  been  no  proof  of  it  in  any  work  that 
he  had  done  ...  he  had  had  nothing  to  show  .  .  .  now  at 
last  there  lay  there,  with  her  in  the  room,  the  evidence  of 
her  belief — his  book. 

But  the  book  seemed  now,  at  this  moment,  of  small  ac- 
count and,  as  she  watched  him,  with  the  candle-light  and  the 
last  flicker  of  the  fire-light  upon  his  face,  she  saw  that  he 
had  forgotten  her  and  was  back  again,  soul  and  spirit, 
amongst  the  things  of  which  he  was  speaking. 

His  voice  was  low  and  monotonous,  his  eyes  staring 
straight  in  front  of  him,  his  hands,  spread  on  his  knees, 
gripped  the  cloth  of  his  trousers.  She  would  not  admit  to 
herself  that  she  was  frightened,  but  her  heart  was  beating 
very  fast  and  it  was  as  though  some  stranger  were  with  her 
in  the  room.  It  may  have  been  the  effect  of  the  candle- 
light, blowing  now  in  the  wind  that  came  through  the  cracks 
in  the  window  panes,  but  it  seemed  to  her  that  Peter's  face 
was  changed.  His  face  had  lines  that  had  not  been  there 
before,  his  mouth  was  thinner  and  harder  and  his  eyes  were 
old  and  tired  .  .  .  she  had  never  seen  the  man  before,  that 
was  her  impression. 

But  she  had  never  known  anything  so  vivid.  Quietly,  as 
though  he  were  reciting  the  story  to  himself  and  were  not 


182  FORTITUDE 

sure  whether  he  were  telling  it  aloud  or  no,  he  began.  As 
he  continued  she  could  see  the  place  as  though  it  was  there 
with  her  in  the  room,  the  little  Inn  that  ran  out  into  the 
water,  the  high-cobbled  street,  the  sea  road,  the  grim  stone 
house  standing  back  amongst  its  belt  of  trees,  the  Grey  Hill, 
the  coast,  the  fields  .  .  .  and  then  the  story — the  night  of 
the  fight,  the  beating,  the  school-days,  that  day  with  his 
mother  (here  he  gave  her  actual  dialogue  as  though  there 
was  no  word  of  it  that  he  had  forgotten),  the  funeral — and 
then  at  last,  gradually,  climbing  to  its  climax  breathlessly, 
the  relation  of  father  and  son,  its  hatred,  then  its  degrada- 
tion, and  last  of  all  that  ludicrous  scene  in  the  early  morn- 
ing ...  he  told  her  everything. 

When  he  had  finished,  there  was  a  long  silence  between 
them:  the  fire  was  out  and  the  room  very  cold.  The  storm 
held  fallen  now  in  a  fury  about  the  house,  and  the  rain 
lashed  the  windows  and  then  fell  in  gurgling  stuttering 
torrents  through  the  pipes  and  along  the  leads.  Miss 
Monogue  could  not  move;  the  scene,  the  place,  the  incidents 
were  slowly  fading  away,  and  the  room  slowly  coming  back 
again.  The  face  opposite  her,  also,  gradually  seemed  to 
drop,  as  though  it  had  been  a  mask,  the  expression  that  it 
had  worn.  Peter  Westcott,  the  Peter  that  she  knew,  sat 
before  her  again;  she  could  have  believed  as  she  looked  at 
him,  that  the  impressions  of  the  last  half-hour  had  been 
entirely  false.  And  yet  the  things  that  he  had  told  her 
were  not  altogether  a  surprise;  she  had  not  known  him  for 
seven  years  without  seeing  signs  of  some  other  temper  and 
spirit — controlled  indeed,  but  nevertheless  there,  and  very 
different  from  the  pleasant,  happy  Peter  who  played  with 
the  Tressiter  children  and  dared  to  chaff  Mrs.  Brockett. 

"  You've  paid  me  a  great  compliment,  telling  me  this," 
she  said  at  last.  "  Remember  we're  friends;  you've  proved 
that  we  are  by  coming  like  this  to-night.  I  shan't  forget 
it.  At  any  rate,"  she  added,  softly,  "  it's  all  right  now, 
Peter — it's  all  over  now." 

"  Over !  No,  indeed,"  he  answered  her.  "  Do  you  sup- 
pose that  one  can  grow  up  like  that  and  then  shake  it  off.^ 
Sometimes  I  think  ...  I'm  afraid  .  .  ."  he  stopped, 
abruptly  biting  his  lips.  "  Oh,  well,"  he  went  on  suddenly 
in  a  brighter  tone,  "  there's  no  need  to  bother  you  with  all 


THE  BOOKSHOP  183 

that.  It's  nothing.  I'm  a  bit  done  up  over  this  book,  I 
expect.  But  that's  really  why  I  told  you  that  little  piece  of 
autobiography — because  it  will  help  you  to  understand  the 
book.  The  book's  come  out  of  all  that,  and  you  mightn't 
have  believed  that  it  was  me  at  all — unless  I'd  told  you  these 
things." 

He  stood  facing  her  and  a  sudden  awkwardness  came 
over  both  of  them.  The  fire  was  dead  (save  for  one  red 
coal),  and  the  windows  rattled  like  pistol-shots.  He  was 
feeling  perhaps  that  he  had  told  her  too  much,  and  the 
reserve  of  his  age,  the  fear  of  being  indiscreet,  had  come 
upon  him.  And  with  her  there  was  the  difficulty  of  not 
knowing  exactly  what  comfort  it  was  that  he  wanted,  or 
whether,  indeed,  any  kind  of  comfort  would  not  be  an 
insult  to  him.  And,  with  all  that  awkwardness,  there  was 
also  a  knowledge  that  they  had  never  been  so  near  together 
before,  an  intimacy  had  been  established  that  night  that 
would  never  again  be  broken. 

Into  their  silence  there  came  a  knock  on  the  door.  When 
Miss  Monogue  opened  it  the  stern  figure  of  Mrs.  Brockett 
confronted  her. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  Miss  Monogue,  but  is  Mr.  Westcott 
here?" 

Peter  stepped  forward. 

"  Oh,  I'm  sure  I'm  sorry  to  have  to  disturb  you,  Mr. 
Westcott,  but  there's  a  man  outside  on  the  steps  who  in- 
sists on  seeing  you." 

"  Seeing  me?  " 

"  Yes — he  won't  come  in  or  go  away.  He  won't  move 
until  he's  seen  you.  Very  obstinate  I'm  sure — and  such  a 
night!     Rather  late,  too — " 

Mrs.  Brockett  was  obviously  displeased.  Her  tall  black 
figure  was  drawn  up  outside  the  door,  as  a  sentry  might 
guard  Buckingham  Palace.  There  was  a  confusion  of 
regality,  displeasure,  and  grim  humour  in  her  attitude. 
But  Peter  was  a  favourite  of  hers.  With  a  hurried  good- 
night to  Miss  Monogue  he  left  the  two  women  standing  on 
the  stairs  and  went  to  the  hall-door. 

When  he  opened  it  the  wind  was  blowing  up  the  steps  so 
furiously  that  it  flung  him  back  into  the  hall  again.  Out- 
side in  the  square  the  world  was  a  wild  tempestuous  black. 


184  FORTITUDE 

only,  a  little  to  the  right,  the  feeble  glow  of  the  lamp  blew 
hither  and  thither  in  the  wind.  The  rain  had  stopped  but 
all  the  pipes  and  funnels  of  the  city  were  roaring  with 
water.  The  noise  was  that  of  a  thousand  chattering  voices, 
and  very  faintly  through  the  tumult  the  bells  of  St.  Mat- 
thews in  Euston  Square  tinkled  the  hour. 

On  the  steps  a  figure  was  standing  bending  beneath  the 
wind.  The  light  from  the  hall  shone  out  on  to  the  black 
slabs  of  stone,  bright  with  the  shining  rain,  but  his  cape 
covered  the  man's  head.  Nevertheless  Peter  knew  at  once 
who  it  was. 

"  Stephen,"  he  said,  quietly. 

The  hall  door  was  flung  to  with  a  crash;  the  wind  hurled 
Peter  against  Stephen's  body. 

"  At  last !  Oh,  Stephen !  Why  didn't  you  come  be- 
fore?" 

"  I  couldn't.  Master  Peter.  I  oughtn't  to  of  come  now, 
but  I  'ad  to  see  yer  face  a  minute.  Not  more  than  a  minute 
though—" 

"  But  you  must  come  in  now,  and  get  dry  things  on  at 
once.  I'll  see  Mrs.  Brockett,  she'll  get  you  a  room.  I'm 
not  going  to  let  you  go  now  that — " 

"  No,  Master  Peter,  I  can't  stop.  I  mustn't.  I  'aven't 
been  so  far  away  all  this  time  as  you  might  have  thought. 
But  I  mustn't  see  yer  unless  I  can  be  of  use  to  yer.  And 
that's  what  I've  come  about." 

He  pressed  close  up  to  Peter,  held  both  his  hands  in  his  and 
said :  "  Look  'ere,  Peter  boy,  yer  may  be  wanting  me  soon 
— no,  I  can't  say  more  than  that.  But  I  want  yer — to  be 
on  the  look-out.  Down  there  at  the  bookshop  be  ready,  and 
then  if  any  sort  o'  thing  should  'appen  down  along — why 
I'm  there,  d'ye  see?  I'll  be  with  yer  when  you  want 
me — 

"  Well,  but  Stephen,  what  do  you  mean  ?  What  could 
happen?  Anyhow  you  mustn't  go  now,  like  this.  I  won't 
let  you  go — " 

"  Ah,  but  I  must  now — I  must.  Maybe  we  shall  be 
meeting  soon  enough.  Only  I'm  there,  boy,  if  yer  wants 
me.     And — keep  yer  eye  open — " 

In  an  instant  that  warm  pressure  of  the  hand  was  gone^ 


THE  BOOKSHOP  185 

the  darker  black  of  Stephen's  body  no  longer  silhouetted 
against  the  lighter  black  of  the  night  sky. 

Still  in  Peter's  nose  there  was  that  scent  of  wet  clothes 
and  the  deep,  husky  voice  was  in  his  ears.  But,  save  for 
the  faint  yellow  flickering  lamp,  struggling  against  the  tem- 
pest, he  was  alone  in  the  square. 

The  rain  bad  begun  to  fall  again. 


CHAPTER  II 
THE  MAN  ON  THE  LION 


AFTER  the  storm,  the  Fog. 
It  came,  a  yellow,  shrouded  witch  down  upon  the 
town,  clinging,  choking,  writhing,  and  bringing  in  its  train 
a  thousand  mysteries,  a  thousand  visions.  It  was  many 
years  since  so  dense  and  cruel  a  fog  had  startled  London — 
in  his  seven  years'  experience  of  the  place  Peter  had  known 
nothing  like  it,  and  his  mind  flew  back  to  that  afternoon  of 
his  arrival,  seven  years  before,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
was  now  moving  straight  on  from  that  point  and  that  there 
had  been  no  intervening  period  at  all.  The  Signor  saw  in  a 
fog  as  a  cat  sees  in  the  dark,  and  he  led  Peter  to  the  book- 
shop without  hesitation.  He  saw  a  good  many  other  things 
beside  his  immediate  direction  and  became  comparatively 
cheerful  and  happy. 

"  It  is  such  a  good  thing  that  people  can't  see  me,"  he 
said.  "  It  relieves  one  of  a  lot  of  responsibility  if  one's 
plain  to  look  at — one  can  act  more  freely."  Certainly  the 
Signor  acted  with  very  considerable  freedom,  darting  oflF 
suddenly  into  the  fog,  apparently  with  the  intention  of 
speaking  to  some  one,  and  leaving  Peter  perfectly  helpless 
and  then  suddenly  darting  back  again,  catching  Peter  in 
tow  and  tugging  him  forward  once  more. 

To  the  bookshop  itself  the  fog  made  very  little  difference. 
There  were  always  the  gas-jets  burning  over  the  two  dark 
corners  and  the  top  shelves  even  in  the  briglitest  of  weather, 
were  mistily  shrouded  by  dust  and  distance.  The  fog  in- 
deed seemed  to  bring  the  books  out  and,  whilst  the  world 
outside  was  so  dark,  the  little  shop  flickered  away  under  the 
gas-jets  with  little  spasmodic  leaps  into  light  and  colour 
when  the  door  ojiencd  and  blew  the  quivering  flame. 

It  was  not  of  the  books  that  Peter  was  thinking  this  morn- 
ing.    He  sat  at  a  little  desk  in  one  dark  corner  under  one 

186 


THE  BOOKSHOP  187 

of  the  gas-jets,  and  Herr  Gottfried,  huddled  up  as  usual, 
with  his  hair  sticking  out  above  the  desk  like  a  mop,  sat 
under  the  other;  an  old  brass  clock,  perched  on  a  heap  of 
books,  ticked  away  the  minutes.  Otherwise  there  was  silence 
save  when  a  customer  entered,  bringing  with  him  a  trail  of 
fog,  or  some  one  who  was  not  a  customer  passed  solemnly, 
seriously  through  to  the  rooms  beyond.  The  shop  was,  of 
course,  full  of  fog,  and  the  books  seemed  to  form  into  lines 
and  rows  and  curves  in  and  out  amongst  the  shelves  of  their 
own  accord. 

Peter  meanwhile  was  most  intently  thinking.  He  knew 
as  though  he  had  seen  it  written  down  in  large  black  letters 
in  front  of  him,  that  a  period  was  shortly  to  be  put  to  his 
present  occupation,  but  he  could  not  have  said  how  it  was 
that  he  knew.  The  finishing  of  his  book  left  the  way  clear 
for  a  number  of  things  to  attack  his  mind.  Here  in  this 
misty  shop  he  was  beset  with  questions.  Why  was  he  here 
at  all?  Had  he  during  these  seven  years  been  of  such 
value,  that  the  shop  could  not  get  on  without  him?  ...  To 
that  second  question  he  must  certainly  answer,  no.  Why 
then  had  Mr.  Zanti  kept  him  all  this  time?  Surely  because 
Mr.  Zanti  was  fond  of  him.  Yes,  that  undoubtedly  was  a 
part  of  the  reason.  The  relationship,  all  this  time,  had 
grown  very  strong  and  it  was  only  now,  when  he  set  himself 
seriously  to  think  about  it,  that  he  realised  how  glad  he  al- 
ways was  when  Mr.  Zanti  returned  from  his  travels  and  how 
happy  he  had  been  when  it  had  been  possible  for  them  to 
spend  an  afternoon  together.  Yes,  Mr.  Zanti  was  attached 
to  him;  he  had  often  said  that  he  looked  upon  him  as  a  son, 
and  sometimes  it  seemed  to  Peter  that  the  strange  man  was 
about  to  make  some  declaration,  something  that  would  clear 
the  air,  and  explain  the  world — ^but  he  never  did. 

Peter  had  discovered  strangely  little  about  him.  He 
knew  now  that  Mr.  Zanti's  connection  with  the  bookshop  was 
of  the  very  slenderest,  that  that  was  indeed  entirely  Herr 
Gottfried's  affair,  and  that  it  was  used  by  the  large  and 
smiling  gentleman  as  a  cloak  and  a  covering.  As  a  cloak 
and  a  covering  to  what?  Well,  at  any  rate,  to  some  large 
and  complicated  game  that  a  great  number  of  gentlemen 
were  engaged  in  playing.  Peter  knew  a  good  many  of  them 
now  by  sight — untidy,  dirty,  many,  foreigners  most,  all  it 


188  FORTITUDE 

seemed  to  Peter,  with  an  air  of  attempting  something  that 
they  could  never  hope  to  accomplish.  Anything  that  they 
might  do  he  was  quite  sure  that  they  would  bungle  and,  with 
the  hearts  of  children,  the  dirty  tatters  of  foreign  countries, 
and  the  imaginations  of  exuberant  story-tellers,  he  could  see 
them  go,  ignorantly,  to  dreadful  catastrophes. 

Peter  was  even  conscious  that  the  shop  was  tolerantly 
•watched  by  inspectors,  detectives,  and  policemen,  and  that  it 
was  all  too  childish — whatever  it  was — for  any  one  to  take  it 
in  the  least  seriously.  But  nevertheless  there  were  elements 
of  very  real  danger  in  all  those  blundering  mysteries  that 
had  been  going  on  now  for  so  many  years,  and  it  was  at  any 
rate  of  the  greatest  importance  to  Peter,  because  he  earned 
his  living  by  it,  because  of  his  love  for  Stephen  and  his  affec- 
tion for  Mr.  Zanti,  and  because  if  once  anything  were  to 
happen  his  one  resting-place  in  this  wild  sea  of  London 
would  be  swept  away  and  he  would  be  utterly  resourceless 
and  destitute. 

This  last  fact  bit  him,  as  he  sat  there  in  the  shop,  with 
sudden  and  acute  sharpness.  What  a  fool  he  had  been, 
all  this  time,  to  let  things  slide!  He  should  have  been 
making  connections,  having  irons  in  the  fire,  bustling  about 
— how  could  he  have  sat  down  thus  happily  and  easily  for 
seven  years,  as  though  such  a  condition  of  things  could 
continue  for  ever?  He  had  had  wild  ideas  of  "  Reuben 
Hallard "  making  his  fortune !  .  .  .  that  showed  his  ig- 
norance of  the  world.  Let  him  begin  to  bustle.  He  would 
not  lose  another  moment.  There  were  two  things  for  him 
now  to  do,  to  beard  editors  (those  mythical  creatures!)  in 
their  caves  and  to  find  out  where  Stephen  lived  .  .  .  both 
these  things  as  soon  as  possible. 

In  the  afternoon  the  fog  became  of  an  impenetrable 
thickness,  and  beyond  the  shop  it  seemed  that  there  was 
pandemonium.  Some  fire,  blazing  at  some  street  corner, 
flared  as  though  it  were  the  beating  heart  of  all  that  dark- 
ness, and  the  cries  of  men  and  the  slow,  clumsy  passing  of 
the  traffic  filled  the  bookshop  with  sound. 

No  customers  came;  Herr  Gottfried  worked  away  at  his 
desk,  the  brass  clock  ticked,  Peter  sat  listening,  waiting. 

Herr  Gottfried  broke  the  silence  once  with:  "  Peter,  my 
friend,  at  ten  o'clock  to-night  there  will  be  a  little  music 


THE  BOOKSHOP  189 

in  my  room.  Herr  Dettsolter  and  his  *celIo — a  little 
Brahms — If  the  fog  is  not  too  much  for  jou." 

Peter  accepted.  He  loved  the  low-roofed  attic,  the 
clouds  of  tobacco,  the  dark  corner  where  he  sat  and  lis- 
tened to  Herr  Gottfried's  friends  (German  exiles  like  Herr 
Gottfried  playing  their  beloved  music).  It  was  his  only 
luxury. 

Once  two  men  whom  Peter  knew  very  well  by  sight 
came  into  the  shop.  They  were,  he  believed,  Russians — 
one  of  them  was  called  Oblotzky — a  tall,  bearded  fierce- 
looking  creature  who  could  speak  no  English. 

Then  suddenly,  just  as  Peter  was  thinking  of  finding 
his  way  home  to  the  boarding-house,  Mr.  Zanti  appeared. 
He  had  been  away  for  the  last  two  months,  but  there  he 
was,  his  huge  body  filling  the  shop,  the  fog  circling  his 
beard  like  a  halo,  beaming,  calm,  and  unflustered  as  though 
he  had  just  come  from  the  next  street. 

"  Damned  fog,"  he  said,  and  then  he  went  and  put  his 
hand  on  Peter's  shoulder  and  looked  down  at  him  smiling. 

"  Well,  *ow  goes  the  shop  ?  "  he  said. 

"Oh,  well  enough,"  said  Peter. 

"What  'ave  you  been  doing,  boy?     Finished  the  book?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Ah,  good.  You'll  be  ze  great  man,  Peter."  He  looked 
down  at  him  proudly  as  a  father  might  look  upon  his 
son. 

"  Ze  damnedest  fog — **  he  began,  then  suddenly  he 
stopped  and  Peter  felt  his  hand  on  his  shoulder  tighten. 
"  Ze  damnedest — "  Mr.  Zanti  said  slowly. 

Peter  looked  up  into  his  face.  He  was  listening.  Herr 
Gottfried,  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  shop,  was  also 
listening. 

For  a  moment  there  was  an  intense  breathless  silence. 
The  noise  from  the  street  seemed  also,  for  the  instant,  to 
be  hushed. 

Very  slowly,  very  quietly,  Mr.  Zanti  went  to  the  street 
door  and  opened  it.  A  cloud  of  yellow  fog  blew  into  the 
shop. 

"  Ze  damnedest  fog  .  .  ."  repeated  Mr.  Zanti,  still  very 
slowly,  as  though  he  were  thinking. 

"Any  one  been?"  he  said  at  last  to  Herr  Gottfried. 


190  FORTITUDE 

"  Oblotzky." 

Mr.  Zanti,  after  flinging  a  strange,  half-affectionate,  half- 
inquisitive  look  at  Peter,  went  through  into  the  room  be- 
yond. 

"  What  .  .  ."  said   Peter. 

"  Often  enough,"  interrupted  Herr  Gottfried,  shuffling 
back  to  his  seat,  "  young  boys  want  to  know — too  much 
.  .  .  often  enough." 


II 

The  Tressiter  children,  of  whom  there  were  eight,  loved 
Peter  with  a  devotion  that  was  in  fact  idolatry.  They  loved 
him  because  he  understood  them  so  completely  and  from 
Anne  Susan,  aged  one  and  a  half,  to  Rupert  Bernard,  aged 
nine,  there  was  no  member  of  the  family  who  did  not  re- 
p>ose  complete  trust  and  confidence  in  Peter's  opinions,  and 
rejoice  in  his  wonderful  grasp  of  the  things  in  the  world 
that  really  mattered.  Other  persons  might  be  seen  shift- 
ing, slowly  and  laboriously,  their  estimates  and  standards 
in  order  to  bring  them  into  line  with  the  youthful  Tressiter 
estimates  and  standards.  .  .  .  Peter  had  his  ready  without 
any  shifting. 

First  of  all  the  family  did  Robin  Tressiter,  aged  four, 
adore  Peter.  He  was  a  fat,  round  child  with  brown  eyes 
and  brown  hair,  and  an  immense  and  overwhelming  in- 
terest in  the  world  and  everything  contained  therein.  He 
was  a  silent  child,  with  a  delightful  fat  chuckle  when  really 
amused  and  pleased,  and  he  never  cried.  His  interest  in 
the  world  led  him  into  strange  and  terrible  catastrophes, 
and  Mrs.  Tressiter  was  always  far  too  busy  and  too  help- 
less to  be  of  any  real  assistance.  On  this  foggy  afternoon, 
Peter,  arriving  at  Brockett's  after  much  difficulty  and  hesi- 
tation, found  Robin  Tressiter,  on  Miss  Monogue's  landing, 
with  his  head  fastened  between  the  railings  that  overlooked 
the  hall  below.  He  was  stuck  very  fast  indeed,  but  ap- 
peared to  be  perfectly  unperturbed — only  every  now  and 
again  he  kicked  a  little  with  his  legs. 

"  I've  stickcd  my  neck  in  these  silly  things,"  he  said, 
when  he  saw  Peter.     "  You  must  pull  at  me." 

Peter  tried  to  wriggle  the  child  through,  but  be  found 


THE  BOOKSHOP  191 

that  he  must  have  some  one  to  help  him.  Urging  Robin 
not  to  move  he  knocked  at  Miss  Monogue's  door.  She 
opened  it,  and  he  stepped  back  with  an  apology  when  he 
saw  that  some  one  else  was  there. 

"  It's  a  friend  of  mine/'  Norah  Monogue  said.  "  Come 
in  and  be  introduced,  Peter." 

"  It's  only,"  Peter  explained,  "  that  young  Robin  has 
got  his  head  stuck  in  the  bannisters  and  I  want  some  one 
to  help  me — " 

Between  them  they  pulled  the  boy  through  to  safety. 
He  chuckled. 

"  I'll  do   it  again,"  he  said. 

"  I'd  rather  you  didn't,"  ^aid  Peter. 

"  Then  I  won't,"  said  Robin.  "  I  did  it  'cause  Rupert 
said  I  couldn't — Rupert's  silly  ass." 

"  You  mustn't  call  your  brother  names  or  I  won't  come 
and  see  you  in  bed." 

"  You  will  come .''  "  said  Robin,  very  earnestly. 

"  I  will,"  said  Peter,  "  to-night,  if  you  don't  call  your 
brother  names." 

"  I  think,"  said  Robin,  reflectively,  "  that  now  I  will 
hunt  for  the  lion  and  the  tigers  on  the  stairs — " 

"  Bring  him  into  my  room  until  his  bedtime,"  said  Miss 
Monogue,  laughing.  "  It's  safer.  Mrs.  Tressiter  is  busy 
and  has   quite  enough  children  in  with   her   already." 

So  Peter  brought  Robin  into  Miss  Norah  Monogue's 
room  and  was  introduced,  at  once,  to  Clare  Elizabeth  Ros- 
siter — so  easily  and  simply  do  the  furious  events  of  life 
occur. 

She  was  standing  with  her  back  to  the  window,  and  the 
light  from  Miss  Monogue's  candles  fell  on  her  black  dress 
and  her  red-gold  hair.  As  he  came  towards  her  he  knew 
at  once  that  she  was  the  little  girl  who  had  talked  to  him 
on  a  hill-top  one  Good  Friday  afternoon.  He  could  almost 
hear  her  now  as  she  spoke  to  Crumpet — the  candle-light 
glow  was  dim  and  sacred  in  the  foggy  room;  the  colour  of 
her  hair  was  filled  more  wonderfully  with  light  and  fire. 
Her  hands  were  so  delicate  and  fine  as  they  moved  against 
her  black  dress  that  they  seemed  to  have  some  harmony  of 
their  own  like  a  piece  of  music  or  a  running  stream.  She 
wore  blue  feathers  in  her  black  hat.     She  did  not  know 


19«  FORTITUDE 

him  at  all  when  he  came  forward,  but  she  smiled  down  at 
Robin,  who  was  clinging  on  to  Peter's  trousers. 

"  This  is  a  friend  of  mine,  Mr.  Westcott,"  Miss  Monogue 
said. 

She  turned  gravely  and  met  him.  They  shook  hands  and 
then  she  sat  down;  suddenly  she  bent  down  and  took  Robin 
into  her  lap.  He  sat  there  sucking  his  thumb,  and  taking 
every  now  and  again  a  sudden  look  at  her  hair  and  the 
light  that  the  candles  made  on  it,  but  he  was  very  silent 
and  quiet  which  was  unlike  him  because  he  generally  hated 
strangers. 

Peter  sat  down  and  was  filled  with  embarrassment;  his 
heart  also  was  beating  very  quickly, 

"  I  have  met  you  before,"  he  said  suddenly.  "  You 
don't  remember." 

"  No— I'm  afraid—" 

"  You  had  once,  a  great  many  years  ago,  a  dog  called 
Crumpet.  Once  in  Cornwall  .  .  .  one  Good  Friday,  he 
tumbled  into  a  lime-pit.     A  boy — " 

"  Why,  of  course,"  she  broke  in,  "  I  remember  you  per- 
fectly. Why  of  all  the  things!  Norah,  do  you  realise? 
Your  friend  and  I  have  known  each  other  for  eight  years. 
Isn't  the  world  a  small  place!  Why  I  remember  perfectly 
now!" 

She  turned  and  talked  to  Norah  Monogue,  and  whilst  she 
talked  he  took  her  in.  Although  now  she  was  grown  up 
she  was  still  strangely  like  that  little  girl  in  Cornwall. 
He  realised  that  now,  as  he  looked  at  her,  he  had  still 
something  of  the  same  feeling  about  her  as  he  had  had 
then — that  she  was  some  one  to  be  cared  for,  protected, 
something  fragile  that  the  world  might  break  if  she  were 
not  guarded. 

She  was  porcelain  but  without  anything  of  Meredith's 
"  rogue."  Because  Peter  was  strong  and  burly  the  con- 
trast of  her  appealing  fragility  attracted  him  all  the  more. 
Had  she  not  been  so  perfectly  proportioned  her  size  would 
have  been  a  defect;  but  now  it  was  simple  that  her  deli- 
cacy of  colour  and  feature  demanded  that  slightness  and 
slenderness  of  build.  Her  hair  was  of  so  burning  a  red- 
gold  that  its  colour  gave  her  precisely  the  setting  that  she 
required.    She  seemed,  as  she  sat  there,  a  little  helpless. 


THE  BOOKSHOP  193 

and  Peter  fancied  that  she  was  wishing  him  to  understand 
that  she  wanted  friends  who  should  assist  her  in  rather  a 
rough-and-tumble  world.  Just  as  she  had  once  appealed 
to  him  to  save  Crumpet,  so  now  she  seemed  to  appeal  for 
some  far  greater  assistance.  Ah !  how  '  he  could  protect 
her!  Peter  thought. 

Something  in  Peter's  steady  gaze  seemed  suddenly  to 
surprise  her.  She  stopped — ^the  colour  mounted  into  her 
cheeks — she  bent  down  over  the  boy. 

They  were  both  of  them  supremely  conscious  of  one  an- 
other. There  was  a  moment.  .  .  .  Then,  as  men  feel, 
when  some  music  that  has  held  them  ceases,  they  came, 
with  a  sense  of  breathlessness,  back  to  Norah  Monogue 
and  her  dim  room. 

Peter  was  conscious  that  Robin  had  watched  them  both. 
He  almost,  Peter  thought,  chuckled  to  himself,  in  his  fat 
solemn  way. 

"  Miss  Rossiter,"  Norah  Monogue  said — and  her  voice 
seemed  a  long  way  away — "  has  j  ust  come  back  from  Ger- 
many and  has  brought  some  wonderful  photographs  with 
her.  She  was  going  to  show  them  to  me  when  you  came 
in—" 

"  Let  me  see  them  too,  please,"  said  Peter. 

Robin  was  put  on  to  the  floor  and  he  went  slowly  and 
with  ceremony  to  an  old  brown  china  Toby  that  had  his 
place  on  a  little  shelf  by  the  door.  This  Toby — his  name 
was  Nathaniel — ^was  an  old  friend  of  Robin's.  Robin  sat 
on  the  floor  in  a  corner  and  told  Nathaniel  the  things  about 
the  world  that  he  had  noticed.  Every  now  and  again  he 
paused  for  Nathaniel's  reply;  he  was  always  waiting  for 
him  to  speak,  and  the  continued  silence  of  a  now  ancient 
acquaintance  had  not  shaken  Robin's  faith.  .  .  .  Robin 
forgot  the  rest  of  the  company. 

"  Photographs  ?  "   said  Peter. 

"  Yes.  Germany.  I  have  just  been  there."  She 
looked  up  at  him  eagerly  and  then  opened  a  portfolio  that 
she  had  behind  her  chair  and  began  to  show  them. 

He  bent  gravely  forward  feeling  that  all  of  this  was 
pretence  of  the  most  absurd  kind  and  that  she  also  knew 
that  it  was. 

But    they   were   very   beautiful   photographs — ^tHe   most 


194  FORTITUDE 

beautiful  that  he  had  ever  seen,  and  as  each,  in  its  turn,  was 
shown  for  a  moment  his  eyes  met  hers  and  his  mouth  al- 
most against  his  will,  smiled.  His  hand  too  was  very  near 
the  silk  of  her  dress.  If  he  moved  it  a  very  little  more 
tlien  they  would  toueh.  He  felt  that  if  that  happened  the 
room  would  immediately  burst  into  flame,  the  air  was  so 
charged  with  the  breathless  tension ;  but  he  watched  the 
little  space  of  air  between  his  fingers  and  the  black  silk 
and  his  hand  did  not  more. 

They  were  all  very  silent  as  she  turned  the  pliotographs 
over  and  there  were  no  sounds  but  the  sharp  crackling  of 
the  fire  as  it  burst  into  little  spurts  of  flame,  the  noise  that 
her  hand  made  on  the  silk  of  her  dress  as  she  turned  each 
picture  and  the  little  mutterings  of  Robin  in  his  corner  as 
he  talked  to  his  Toby. 

Peter  had  never  seen  anything  like  this  photography. 
The  man  had  used  his  medium  as  delicately  as  though  he 
had  drawn  every  line.  Things  stood  out — castles,  a  hill, 
trees,  running  water,  a  shining  road — and  behind  them 
there  was  darkness  and  mj'stery. 

Suddenly  Peter  cried  out: 

"  Oh!  that!  "  he  said.  It  was  the  photograph  of  a  great 
statue  standing  on  a  hill  that  overlooked  a  river.  That 
was  all  that  could  be  seen — the  background  was  dark  and 
vague,  it  was  the  statue  of  a  man  who  rode  a  lion.  The 
lion  was  of  enormous  size  and  struggling  to  be  free,  but  the 
man,  naked,  with  his  utmost  energy,  his  back  set,  his  arms 
stiff",  had  it  in  control,  but  only  just  in  control  .  .  .  his 
face  was  terrible  in  the  agony  of  his  struggle  and  that 
struggle  had  lasted  for  a  great  period  of  time  .  .  .  but  at 
length,  when  all  but  defeated,  he  had  mastered  his  beast. 

"  Ah  that ! "  Miss  Rossiter  held  it  up  that  Norah 
Monogue  might  see  it  better.  "  That  is  on  a  hill  outside  a 
little  town  in  Bavaria,  They  put  it  up  to  a  Hcrr  Drexter 
who  had  done  something,  saved  their  town  from  riot  I 
think.  It's  a  fine  thing,  isn't  it,  and  I  think  it  so  clever  of 
them  to  have  made  him  middle-aged  with  all  the  marks  of 
the  struggle  about  him — those  scars,  his  face — so  that  you 
can  see  that  it's  all  been  tremendous — " 

Peter  spoke  very  slowly — "  I'd  give  anything  to  see 
that !  "  he  said. 


THE  BOOKSHOP  195 

"Well,  it's  in  Bavaria;  I  wonder  that  it  isn't  better 
known.  But  funnily  enough  the  people  that  were  with 
me  at  the  time  didn't  like  it;  it  was  only  afterwards,  when 
I  showed  them  the  photograph  that  they  saw  that  there 
might  have  been  ,  .  .  aren't  people  funny  ?  "  she  ended 
abruptly,  appealing  to  him  with  a  kind  of  freemasonry 
against  the  world. 

But,  still  bending  his  brows  upon  it  he  said  insistently — ■ 

"  Tell  me  more  about  it — the  place — everything — " 

"  There  isn't  really  anything  to  tell;  it's  only  a  very 
ordinary,  very  beautiful,  little  German  town.  There  are 
many  orchards  and  this  forest  at  the  back  of  it  and  the 
river  running  through  it — little  cobbled  streets  and  bridges 
over  the  river.  And  then,  outside,  this  great  statue  on  the 
hill—" 

"  Ah,  but  it's  wonderful,  that  man's  face — I'd  like  to  go 
to  that  town — "  He  felt  perhaps  that  he  was  taking  it  all 
too  seriously  for  he  turned  round  and  said  laughing: 
"  The  boy's  daft  on  lions — Robin,  come  and  look  at  this 
lion — here's   an  animal  for  you." 

The  boy  put  down  the  Toby  and  walked  slowly  and 
solemnly  toward  them.  He  climbed  on  to  Peter's  knee  and 
looked  at  the  photograph:  "Oh!  it  is  a  lion!"  he  said  at 
last,  rubbing  his  fat  finger  on  the  surface  of  it  to  see  of 
what  material  it  was  made.  "  Oh !  for  me !  "  he  said  at 
last  in  a  shrill,  excited  voice  and  clutching  on  to  it  with  one 
hand.     "  For  me — to  hang  over  my  bed." 

"  No,  old  man,"  Peter  answered,  "  it  belongs  to  the  lady 
here.     She  must  take  it  away  with  her." 

"  Oh !  but  I  want  it !  "  his  eyes  began  to  fill  with  tears. 

Miss  Rossiter  bent  down  and  kissed  him.  He  looked 
at  her  distrustfully.  "  I  know  now  I'm  not  to  have  it," 
he  said  at  last,  eyeing  her,  "  or  you  wouldn't  have  kissed 
me." 

"  Come  on,"  said  Peter,  afraid  of  a  scene,  "  the  lady  will 
show  you  the  lion  another  day — meantime  I  think  bed  is 
the  thing." 

He  mounted  the  boy  on  to  his  shoulder  and  turned 
round  to  Miss  Rossiter  to  say  "  Good-bye."  The  photo- 
graph lay  on  the  table  between  them — "  I  shan't  forget 
that/*  he  said. 


196  FORTITUDE 

"  Oh !  but  you  must  come  and  see  us  one  day.  My 
mother  will  be  delighted.  There  are  a  lot  more  photographs 
at  home.  You  must  bring  him  out  one  day,  Norah,"  she  said 
turning  to  Miss  Monogue. 

If  he  had  been  a  primitive  member  of  society  in  the 
Stone  Age  he  would  at  this  point,  have  placed  Robin  care- 
fully on  the  floor  and  have  picked  Miss  Rossiter  up  and 
she  should  never  again  have  left  his  care. 

As  it  was  he  said,  "  I  shall  be  delighted  to  come  one  day." 

"  We  will  talk  about  Cornwall — " 

"  And  Germany." 

His  hand  was  burning  hot  when  he  gave  it  her — ^he 
knew  that  she  was  looking  at  his  eyes. 

He  was  abruptly  conscious  of  Miss  Monogue 's  voice  be- 
hind  him. 

"  I've  read  a  quarter  of  the  book,  Peter." 

He  wondered  as  he  turned  to  her  how  it  could  be  possible 
to  regard  two  women  so  differently.  To  be  so  sternly  crit- 
ical of  one — her  hair  that  was  nearly  down,  a  little  ink  on 
her  thumb,  her  blouse  that  was  unbuttoned — and  of  the 
other  to  see  her  all  in  a  glory  so  that  her  whole  body,  for 
colour  and  light  and  beautiful  silence,  had  no  equal  amongst 
the  possessions  of  the  earth  or  the  wonders  of  heaven. 
Here  there  was  a  button  undone,  there  there  was  a  flaming 
fire. 

"  I  won't  say  anything,"  Miss  Monogue  said,  "  until  I've 
read  more,  but  it's  going  to  be  extraordinarily  good  I 
think." 

What  did  he  care  about  "  Reuben  Hallard  ?  "  What  did 
that  matter  when  he  had  Clare  Elizabeth  Rossiter  in  front 
of  him. 

And  then  he  pulled  himself  up.  It  must  matter.  How 
delighted  an  hour  ago  those  words  would  have  made  him. 

"Oh!  you  think  there's  something  in  it?"  he  said. 

"  We'll  wait,"  she  answered,  but  her  smile  and  the  spar- 
kle in  her  eyes  showed  what  she  thought.  What  a  brick 
she  was! 

He  turned  round  back  to  Miss   Rossiter. 

"  My  first  book,"  he  said  laughing.  "  Of  course  we're 
excited — " 

And  then  he  was   out  of  the  room  in  a  moment  with 


THE  BOOKSHOP  197 

Robin  clutching  his  hair.  He  did  not  want  to  look  at  her 
again  ...  he  had  so  wonderful  a  picture! 

And  as  he  left  Robin  in  the  heart  of  his  family  he  heard 
him  say — 

"  Such  a  lion,  Mother,  a  lady's  got — with  a  man  on  it — • 
a  'normous  lion,  and  the  man  hasn't  any  clothes  on,  and 
his  legs  are  all  scratched.  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER  III 
ROYAL  PERSONAGES  ARE  COMING 


PETER,  sitting  obscurely  in  a  corner  of  Herr  Gott- 
fried's attic  on  the  evening  of  this  eventful  day  and 
listening  to  that  string  sextette  that  was  written  by  Brahms 
when  he  was  nineteen  years  of  age  (and  it  came  straight 
from  the  heights  of  Olympus  if  any  piece  of  music  ever 
did),  was  conscious  of  the  eyes  of  Herr  Lutz. 

Herr  Lutz  was  Herr  Gottfried's  greatest  friend  and  was 
notable  for  three  things,  his  enormous  size,  his  surpassing 
skill  on  the  violoncello  and  his  devoted  attachment  to  the 
veriest  shrew  of  a  little  sharp-boned  wife  that  ever  crossed 
from  Germany  into  England.  For  all  these  things  Peter 
loved  him,  but  Herr  Lutz  was  never  very  actively  conscious 
of  Peter  because  from  the  moment  that  he  entered  Herr 
Gottfried's  attic  to  the  moment  he  left  it  his  soul  was 
wrapped  in  the  music  and  in  nothing  else  whatever.  To- 
night as  usual  he  was  absorbed  and  after  the  second  move- 
ment of  the  sextette  had  come  to  a  most  rapturous  con- 
clusion he  was  violently  dissatisfied  and  pulled  them  back 
over  it  again,  because  they  had  been  ragged  and  their  en- 
thusiasm had  got  the  better  of  their  time  and  they  were 
altogether  disgraceful  villains,  but  through  all  of  this  his 
grey   eyes   were  upon   Peter. 

Peter,  watching  from  his  dark  corner  even  felt  that  the 
'cello  was  being  played  especially  for  his  benefit  and  that 
Herr  Lutz  was  talking  all  the  time  to  him  through  the 
medium  of  his  instrument.  It  may  have  been  that  he  him- 
self was  in  a  state  of  most  exalted  emotion,  and  never  until 
the  end  of  all  things  mortal  and  possibly  all  things  eternal 
will  he  forget  that  sextette  by  Brahms;  he  may  perhaps 
have  put  more  into  Herr  Lutz  than  was  really  there,  but 
it  is  certain  that  he  was  conscious  of  the  German's  atten- 
tion. 

As  is  common  to  all  persons  of  his  age  and  condition  he 

198 


] 


THE  BOOKSHOP  199 

was  amazed  at  the  glorified  vision  of  everyday  things.  In 
Herr  Gottfried's  flat  there  was  a  model  of  Beethoven  in 
plaster  of  Paris,  a  bed,  and  a  tin  wash-hand  stand,  a  tiny 
bookshelf  containing  some  tattered  volumes  of  Reclame's 
Universal  Bibliothek,  a  piano  and  six  cane-bottomed  chairs 
covered  at  the  moment  by  the  stout  bodies  of  the  six  mu- 
sicians— nothing  here  to  light  the  world  with  wonder ! — • 
and  yet  to-night,  Peter,  sitting  on  a  cushion  in  a  dark  cor- 
ner watched  the  glories  of  Olympus;  the  music  of  heaven 
was  in  his  ear  and  before  him,  laughing  at  him,  smiling, 
vanishing  onh'  to  reappear  more  rapturous  and  beautiful 
than  ever  was  the  lady,  the  wonderful  and  only  lady. 

His  cheeks  were  hot  and  his  heart  was  beating  so  loudly 
that  it  was  surely  no  wonder  that  Herr  Lutz  had  discovered 
his  malady.  The  sextette  came  to  an  end  and  the  six  mu- 
sicians sat,  for  a  moment,  silent  on  their  chairs  whilst  they 
dragged  themselves  into  the  world  that  they  had  for  a  mo- 
ment forsaken.  That  was  a  great  instant  of  silence  when 
every  one  in  the  room  was  concerned  entirely  with  their 
souls  and  had  forgotten  that  they  so  much  as  had  bodies 
at  all.  Then  Herr  Lutz  gathered  his  huge  frame  together, 
stuck  his  hand  into  his  beard  and  cried  aloud  for  drink. 

Beer  was  provided — conversation  was,  for  the  next  two 
hours,  volcanic.  When  twelve  o'clock  struck  in  the  church 
round  the  corner  the  meeting  was  broken  up. 

Herr  Lutz  said  to  Peter,  "  There  is  still  the  *  ver- 
dammte '  fog.     Together  we  will  go  part  of  the  way." 

So  they  went  together.  But  on  the  top  of  the  dark  and 
crooked  staircase  Herr  Gottfried  stopped  Peter. 

"  Boy,"  he  said  and  he  rubbed  his  nose  with  his  finger 
as  he  always  did  when  he  was  nervous  and  embarrassed, 
"  I  shouldn't  go  to  the  shop  for  a  week  or  two  if  I  were 
you." 

"  Not  go  ?  "   said   Peter   astonished. 

"  No — for  reason  why — well — who  knows  ?  The  days 
come  and  they  go,  and  again  it  will  be  all  right  for  you. 
I  should  rub  up  the  Editors,  I  should — " 

"  Rub  up  the   Editors  ?  "  repeated   Peter  still  confused. 

"  Yes — have  other  irons,  you  know — often  enough  other 
irons  are  handy — " 

"  Did  Zanti  tell  you  to  say  this  to  me?  " 


«00  FORTITUDE 

"  No,  he  says  nothing.  It  is  only  I — as  a  friend,  you 
understand — " 

"  Well,  thank  you  very  much,"  said  Peter  at  last  Herr 
Gottfried,  he  reflected,  must  think  that  he,  Peter,  had  mints 
of  money  if  he  could  so  lightly  and  on  so  slender  a  warn- 
ing propose  his  abandoning  his  precious  two  pounds  a  week. 
Moreover  there  was  loyalty  to  Mr.  Zanti  to  be  considered. 
.  .  .  Anyway,  what  did  it  all  mean? 

"  I  can't  go,"  he  said  at  last,  "  unless  Zanti  says  some- 
thing to  me.     But  what  are  they  all  up  to.''  " 

"  Seven  years,"  said  Herr  Gottfried  darkly,  "  has  the 
Boy  been  in  the  shop — of  so  little  enquiring  a  mind  is  he." 
And  he  would  say  nothing  further.  Peter  followed  Herr 
Lutz'  huge  body  into  the  street.  They  took  arms  when 
they  encountered  the  fog  and  went  stumbling  along  to- 
gether. 

"  You  are  in  lof,"  said  Herr  Lutz,  breathlessly  avoid- 
ing a  lamp  post. 

"  Yes,"  said  Peter,  "  I  am." 

"  Ah,"  said  Herr  Lutz  giving  Peter's  arm  a  squeeze. 
"  It  is  the  only  thing — The — Only — Thing.  .  .  .  How- 
ever it  may  be  for  you — bad  or  ill — whether  she  scold  or 
smile,  it  is  a  most  blessed  state." 

He  spoke  when  under  stress  of  emotion,  in  capitals  with 
a  pause  before  the  important  word. 

"  It  won't  come  to  anything,"  said  Peter.  "  It  can't 
possibly.  I  haven't  got  anything  to  offer  anybody — an 
uncertain  two  pounds  a  week." 

"  You  have  a — Career,"  said  Herr  Lutz  solemnly,  "  I 
know — I  have  often  watched  you.  You  have  written  a — 
Book.  Karl  Gottfried  has  told  me.  But  all  that  does  not 
matter,"  he  went  on  impetuously.  "  It  does  not  matter 
'what  you  get — It  is — Being — in — Love — The — divine —  I 
never — to — be — equalled — State — " 

The  enormous  German  stopped  on  an  island  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  road  and  waved  his  arms.  On  every  side  of  him 
through  the  darkness  the  traflic  rolled  and  thundered.  He 
waved  his  arms  and  exulted  because  he  had  been  married 
to  a  shrew  of  a  wife  for  thirty  years.  During  that  time 
she  had  never  given  him  a  kind  word,  not  a  loving  look,  but 
Peter  knew  that  out  of  all  the  fog  and  obscurity  that  life 


THE  BOOKSHOP  «01 

might  bring  to  him  that  Word,  sprung  though  it  might  be 
out  of  Teutonic  sentiment  and  Heller's  beer,  that  word,  at 
any  rate,  was  true. 


II 

London,  in  the  morning,  recovered  from  the  fog  and 
prepared  to  receive  Foreign  Personages.  They  were  not 
to  arrive  for  another  week,  but  it  was  some  while  since 
anything  of  the  kind  had  occurred  and  London  meant  to 
carry  it  out  well.  The  newspapers  were  crowded  with  de- 
tails; personal  anecdotes  about  the  Personages  abounded 
• — a  Procession  was  to  take  place,  stands  began  to  climb 
into  the  air  and  the  Queen  and  her  visitors  were  to  have 
addresses  presented  to  them  at  intervals  during  the  Prog- 
ress. 

To  Peter  this  all  seemed  supremely  unimportant.  At 
the  same  moment,  to  confuse  little  things  with  big  ones, 
Mrs.  Lazarus  suddenly  decided  to  die.  She  had  been  un- 
well for  many  months  and  her  brain  had  been  very  clouded 
and  temper  uncertain — but  now  suddenly  she  felt  perfectly 
well,  her  intelligence  was  as  sharp  and  bright  as  it  had 
ever  been  and  the  doctor  gave  her  a  week  at  the  utmost. 
She  would  like,  she  said,  to  have  seen  the  dear  Queen  ride 
through  the  streets  amidst  the  plaudits  of  the  populace,  but 
she  supposed  it  was  not  to  be.  So  with  a  lace  cap  on  her 
head  and  her  nose  sharp  and  shiny  she  sat  up  in  bed,  flicked 
imaginary  bread  pellets  along  the  counterpane,  talked  hap- 
pily to  the  boarding-house  and  made  ready  to  die. 

The  boarding-house  was  immensely  moved,  and  Peter, 
during  these  days  came  back  early  from  the  bookshop  in 
order  to  sit  with  her.  He  was  surprised  that  he  cared  as 
he  did.  The  old  lady  had  been  for  so  long  a  part  of  his 
daily  background  that  he  could  no  more  believe  in  her  de- 
parture than  he  could  in  the  sudden  disappearance  of  the 
dark  green  curtains  and  the  marble  pillars  in  the  dining- 
room.  She  had  had,  from  the  first,  a  great  liking  for 
Peter.  He  had  never  known  how  much  of  that  affection 
was  an  incoherent  madness  and  he  had  never  in  any  way 
analysed  his  own  feeling  for  her,  but  now  he  was  surprised 
^t  the  acute  sharpness  of  his  regret. 


202  FORTITUDE 

On  a  bright  evening  of  sunshine,  about  six  o'clock,  she 
died — Mrs.  Brockett,  the  Tressiters,  Norah  Monogue  also 
were  with  her  at  the  time.  Peter  had  been  with  her  alone 
during  the  earlier  afternoon  and  although  she  had  been 
very  weak  she  had  talked  to  him  in  her  trembling  voice 
(it  was  like  the  noise  that  two  needles  knocking  against 
one  another  would  make),  and  she  had  told  him  how  she 
believed  in  him. 

She  made  him  ashamed  with  the  things  that  she  said 
about  him.  He  had  paid  her  little  enough  attention,  he 
thought,  during  these  seven  years.  There  were  so  many 
things  that  he  might  have  done.  As  the  afternoon  sun 
streamed  into  the  room  and  the  old  lady,  her  hands  like 
ivory  upon  the  counterpane,  fell  into  a  quiet  sleep  he  won- 
dered— Was  he  bad  or  good?  Was  he  strong  or  weak.^ 
These  things  that  people  said,  the  affection  that  people 
gave  him  ...  he  deserved  none  of  it.  Surely  never  were 
two  so  opposite  presences  bound  together  in  one  body — he 
was  profoundly  selfish,  profoundly  unselfish,  loving,  hard, 
kind,  cruel,  proud,  humble,  generous,  mean,  completely  pos- 
sessed, entirely  uncontrolled,  old  beyond  his  years,  young 
beyond  belief — 

As  he  sat  there  beside  the  sleeping  old  lady  he  felt  a 
contempt  of  himself  that  was  beyond  all  expression,  and 
also  he  felt  a  pride  at  the  things  that  he  knew  that  he 
might  do,  a  pride  that  brought  the  blood  to  his  cheeks. 

The  Man  on  the  Lion?  The  Man  under  the  Lion's 
Paw?  .  .  .  The  years  would  show.  A  quiet  happy  seren- 
ity passed  over  Mrs.  Lazarus'  face  and  he  called  the  others 
into  tlie  room. 

Stern  Mrs.  Brock ett  was  crying.  Mrs.  Lazarus  woke 
for  a  moment  and  smiled  uyyon  them  all.  She  took  Peter's 
hand. 

"  Be  good  to  old  people,"  she  breathed  very  faintly — 
then  she  closed  her  eyes  and  so  died. 

Below  in  the  street  a  boy  was  calling  the  evening  papers. 

"  Arrival  of  the  Prince  and  Princess  of  Schloss.  .  .  . 
Arrival  of  the  Prince  and — " 

They  closed  the  windows  and  pulled  down  the  blinds. 


THE  BOOKSHOP  203 

III 

Thursday  was  to  be  the  day  of  Royal  Processions,  and 
on  Friday  old  Mrs,  Lazarus  was  to  be  buried. 

To  Peter,  Wednesday  was  a  day  of  extravagant  con- 
fusion— extravagant  because  it  was  a  day  on  which  noth- 
ing was  done.  Customers  were  not  served  in  the  shop. 
Editors  were  not  attacked  in  their  lairs.  Nothing  was 
done,  every  one  hung  about. 

Peter  could  not  name  any  one  as  directly  responsible  for 
this  state  of  things,  nor  could  he  define  his  own  condition 
of  mind;  only  he  knew  that  he  could  not  leave  the  shop. 
About  its  doors  and  passages  there  fell  all  day  an  air  of 
suspense.  Mr.  Zanti  was  himself  a  little  responsible  for 
this ;  it  was  so  unusual  for  that  large  and  smiling  gentle- 
man to  waste  the  day  idly;  and  yet  there  he  was,  starting 
every  now  and  again  fc  the  door,  looking  into  the  empty 
yard  from  the  windows  at  the  back  of  the  house,  disappear- 
ing sometimes  into  the  rooms  above,  reappearing  suddenly 
with  an  air  of  unconcern  a  little  too  elaborately  contrived. 

Peter  felt  that  Mr.  Zanti  had  a  great  deal  that  he  would 
like  to  say  to  him,  and  once  or  twice  he  came  to  him  and 
began  "  Oh,  I  say,  boy,"  and  then  stopped  with  an  air  of 
confusion  as  though  he  had  recollected  something,  suddenly. 

There  was  a  Russian  girl,  too,  who  was  about  the  shop, 
uneasily  on  this  day.  She  was  thin,  slight,  very  dark; 
fierce  eyes  and  hands  that  seemed  to  be  always  curving. 
Her  name  was  Maria  Notroska  and  she  was  engaged  to  the 
big  Russian,  Oblotzky,  whom  Peter  had  seen,  on  other  days 
up  and  down  through  the  shop.  She  spoke  to  no  one.  She 
knew  but  little  English — but  she  would  stand  for  hours  at 
the  door  looking  out  into  the  street.  It  was  a  long  uneasy 
day  and  Peter  was  glad  when  the  evening,  in  slow  straight 
lines  of  golden  light,  came  in  through  the  black  door.  The 
evening  too  seemed  to  bring  forward  a  renewed  hope  of 
seeing  Stephen  again — enquiries  could  bring  nothing  from 
either  Zanti  or  Herr  Gottfried;  they  had  never  heard  of 
the  man,  oh  no!  .  .  .  Stephen  Brant?  Stephen.  .  .  .  ? 
No !     Never — 

That  sudden  springing  out  of  the  darkness  had  meant 
something  however.     Peter  could  still  feel  his  wet  clothes 


204  FORTITUDE 

and  see  his  shining  beard.  Yes,  if  there  were  any  trouble 
Stephen  would  be  there.  What  were  they  all  about? 
Peter  closed  the  shutters  of  the  shop  that  night  without 
having  any  explanation  to  offer.  Mr.  Zanti  was  indeed  a 
strange  man;  when  Peter  turned  to  go  he  stopped  him 
with  his  hand  on  his  shoulder:  "  Peter,  boy,"  he  said, 
whispering,  "  come  upstairs — I  have  something  to  tell  you," 

Peter  was  about  to  follow  him  back  into  the  shop  when 
suddenly  the  man  shook  his  head.  "  No,  not  to-night," 
he  said  and  almost  pushed  him  into  the  street. 

Peter,  looking  back,  saw  that  he  was  talking  to  the 
Russian   girl. 

But  the  day  was  not  over  with  that.  Wondering  about 
Mr.  Zanti,  thinking  that  the  boarding-house  would  be 
gloomy  now  after  Mrs.  Lazarus'  death,  recalling,  above  all, 
to  himself  every  slightest  incident  of  his  meeting  with  Miss 
Rossiter,  Peter,  crossing  Oxford  Street,  flung  his  broad 
body  against  a  fat  and  soft  one.  There  was  nearly  a-  col- 
lapse. 

The  other  man  and  Peter  grasped  arms  to  steady  them- 
selves, and  th^n  behold!  the  fat  body  was  Bobby  Galleon's. 
Bobby  Galleon,  after  all  these  years !  But  there  could  be 
no  possible  doubt  about  it.  There  he  stood,  standing  back 
a  little  from  the  shock,  his  bowler  hat  knocked  to  one  side 
of  his  head,  a  deprecating,  apologetic  smile  on  his  dear  fat 
face!  A  man  of  course  now,  but  very  little  altered  in 
spite  of  all  the  years;  a  little  fatter  perhaps,  his  body 
seemed  rather  shapeless — but  those  same  kind  eyes,  that 
large  mouth  and  the  clear  straight  look  in  all  his  face  that 
spoke  him  to  all  the  world  for  what  he  was.  Peter  felt 
exactly  as  though,  after  a  long  and  tiring  journey,  he  had 
tumbled  at  last  into  a  large  arm-chair.  He  was  excited,  he 
waved  his  arms: 

"  Bobby,  Bobby,"  he  cried,  so  loudly  that  two  old 
women  in  bonnets,  crossing  the  road  like  a  couple  of  hens 
turned  to  look  at  him. 

"  I'm  sorry — "  Bobby  said  vaguely,  and  then  slowly  rec- 
ognition  came  into   his   eyes. 

"  Peter !  "  he  said  in  a  voice  lost  in  amazement,  the  col- 
our flooding  his  checks. 

It  wa«  all  absurdly  moving;  they  were  quite  ridiculously 


THE  BOOKSHOP  a06 

stirred,  both  of  them.  The  lamps  were  coming  out  down 
Oxford  Street,  a  pale  saffron  sky  outlined  the  dark  bulk 
of  the  Church  that  is  opposite  Mudie's  shop  and  stands 
back  from  the  street,  a  little  as  though  it  wondered  at  all 
the  noise  and  clamour,  a  limpid  and  watery  blue  still  lin- 
gered, wavering,  in  the  evening  sky. 

They  turned  into  an  A.B.C.  shop  and  ordered  glasses  of 
milk  and  they  sat  and  looked  at  one  another.  They  had 
altered  remarkably  little  and  to  both  of  them,  although  the 
roar  of  the  Oxford  Street  traffic  was  outside  the  window, 
it  might  have  been,  easily  enough,  that  a  clanging  bell  would 
soon  summon  them  back  to  ink-stained  desks  and  Latin 
exercises. 

"  Why,  in  heaven's  name,  did  you  ever  get  out  of  my 
sight  so  completely.'*  I  wrote  to  Treliss  again  and  again 
but  I  don't  suppose  anything  was  forwarded." 

"  They  don't  know  where  I  am." 

"  But  why  did  you  never  write  to  me }  '* 

"  Why  should  I  ?  I  wanted  to  do  something  first — to 
show  you — " 

"  What  rot !  Is  that  friendship  ?  I  call  that  the  most 
selfish  thing  I've  ever  known."  No,  obviously  enough, 
Bobby  could  never  understand  that  kind  of  thing.  With 
him,  once  a  friend  always  a  friend,  that  is  what  life  is  for. 
With  Peter,  once  an  adventure  always  an  adventure — that 
is  what  life  is  for — but  as  soon  as  a  friend  ceases  to  be  an 
adventure,  why  then — 

But  Bobby  had  not  ceased  to  be  an  adventure.  He  was, 
as  he  sat  there,  more  of  one  than  he  had  ever  been  before. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  all  these  years }  " 

"  Been  in  a  bookshop." 

"  In  a  bookshop  ?  " 

"  Yes,  selling  second-hand  books." 

"What  else?" 

"  Oh  reading  a  lot  .  .  .  seeing  one  or  two  people  .  .  . 
and  some  music."  Peter  was  vague;  what  after  all  had  he 
been  doing? 

Bobby  looked  at  him  tenderly  and  affectionately.  "  You 
want  seeing  after — you  look  fierce,  as  you  used  to  when 
you'd  been  having  a  bad  time  at  schooL  The  day  they  all 
hissed  you." 


206  FORTITUDE 

"  But  I  haven't  been  havinpr  a  bad  time.  I've  had  a 
jolly  good  one.  By  the  way,"  Peter  leant  forward,  "  have 
you  seen  or  heard  anything  of  Cards?  " 

Bobby  coloured  a  little.  "  No,  not  for  a  long  time. 
His  mother  died.  He's  a  great  swell  now  with  heaps  of 
money,  I  believe.     I'm  not  his  sort  a  bit." 

They  drank  milk  and  beamed  upon  one  another.  Peter 
wanted  to  tell  Bobby  everything.  That  was  one  of  his 
invaluable  qualities,  that  one  did  like  telling  him  every- 
thing. Talking  to  him  eagerly  now,  Peter  wondered  how 
it  could  be  that  he'd  ever  managed  to  get  through  these 
many  years  without  him.  Bobby  simply  existed  to  help 
his  friends  and  that  was  the  kind  of  person  that  Peter  had 
so  often  wanted. 

But  in  it  all — in  their  talking,  their  laughing  together, 
their  remembering  certain  catchwords  that  they  had  used 
together,  there  was  nothing  more  remarkable  than  their 
finding  each  other  exactly  as  they  had  been  during  those 
years  before  at  Dawson's.  Not  even  Bobby's  tremendous 
statement  could   alter   that. 

"  I'm  married,"  he  said. 

"  Married  ?  " 

Bobby  blushed.  "  Yes — two  years  now — got  a  baby. 
She's  quite  splendid  !  " 

"  Oh !  "  Peter  was  a  little  blank.  Somehow  this  did 
remove  Bobby  a  little — it  also  made  him,  suddenly,  strangely 
old. 

"  But  it  doesn't  make  any  difference,"  Bobby  said,  lean- 
ing forward  eagerly  and  putting  his  hand  on  Peter's  arm 
— "  not  the  least  difference.  You  two  will  simply  get  on 
famously.  I've  so  often  told  her  about  you  and  we've 
always  been  hoping  that  you'd  turn  up  again — and  now 
she'll  be  simjily  delighted." 

But  it  made  a  difference  to  Peter,  nevertheless.  He 
went  back  a  little  into  his  shell;  Bobby  with  a  home  and  a 
wife  and  a  baby  couldn't  spare  time,  of  course,  for  ordi- 
nary friends.  But  even  here  his  conscience  pricked  him. 
Did  he  not  know  Bobby  well  enough  to  be  assured  that  he 
was  as  firm  and  solid  as  a  rock,  that  nothing  at  all  could 
move  or  change  him.''     And  after  all,  was  not  he,  Peter, 


THE  BOOKSHOP  207 

wishing  to  be  engaged  and  married  and  the  father  of  a 
family  and  the  owner  of  a  respectable  mansion? 

Clare  Elizabeth  Rossiter !  How  glorious  for  an  instant 
were  the  thin,  sharp-faced  waitresses,  the  little  marble- 
topped  tables,  the  glass  windows  filled  with  sponge-cakes 
and  hard-boiled  eggs ! 

Peter  came  out  of  his  shell  again.  "  I  shall  just  love  to 
come  and  see  her,"  he  said. 

"  Well,  just  as  soon  as  you  can.  By  Jove,  old  man,  I'll 
never  let  you  go  again.  Now  tell  me,  everything — all  that 
you  have  done  since  I  saw  you." 

Peter  told  him  a  great  deal — not  quite  everything.  He 
told  him  nothing,  for  instance,  about  meeting  a  certain 
young  lady  on  a  Good  Friday  afternoon  and  he  passed 
over  some  of  the  Scaw  House  incidents  as  speedily  as  pos- 
sible. 

"  And  since  I  came  up  to  London,"  he  went  on,  "  the 
whole  of  my  time  has  been  spent  either  in  the  bookshop  or 
the  boarding-house.  They're  awfully  good  sorts  at  both, 
but  it's  all  very  uncertain  of  course  and  instead  of  writing 
a  novel  that  no  one  will  want  to  read  I  ought  to  have  been 
getting  on  to  editors.  I've  a  kind  of  feeling  that  the  book- 
shop's going  to  end  very  shortly." 

"  Let  me  see  the  book,"  said  Bobby. 

"  Yes,   certainly,"   said   Peter. 

"  Anyhow,  we  go  on  together  from  this  time  forth — 
72  Cheyne  Walk  is  my  little  house.  When  will  you  come 
— to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Oh !  To-morrow !  I  don't  think  I  can.  There  are 
these  Processions  and  things — I  think  I  ought  to  be  in  the 
shop.  But  I'll  come  very  soon.  This  is  the  name  of  my 
boarding-house — " 

Bobby,  as  he  saw  his  friend,  broad-shouldered,  swinging 
along,  pass  down  the  street  with  the  orange  lamps  throw- 
ing chains  of  light  about  him,  was  confronted  again  by  that 
old  elusive  spirit  that  he  had  known  so  well  at  school. 
Peter  liked  him,  Peter  was  glad  to  see  him  again,  but  there 
were  so  many  other  Peters,  so  many  doors  closed  against 
intruders.  .  .  .  Bobby  would  always,  to  the  end,  be  for 
Peter,  outside  these  doors.     He  knew  it  quite  certainly,  a 


208  FORTITUDE 

little  sadly,  as  he  climbed  on  to  his  bxis.  What  was  there 
about  Peter?  Something  hard,  fierce,  wildly  hostile  .  .  .i 
a  devil,  a  God.  Something  that  Bobby  going  quietly! 
home  to  his  comfortable  dinner,  might  watch  and  guard 
and  even  love  but  something  that  he  could  never  share.  ' 
Now,  in  the  cool  and  quiet  of  the  Chelsea  Embankment 
as  he  walked  to  his  door,  Bobby  sighed  a  little  because  life 
was  so  comfortable. 


CHAPTER  IV 
A  LITTLE  DUST 


THAT  night  Peter  had  one  of  his  old  dreams.  In  all 
the  seven  years  that  he  had  been  in  London  the 
visions  that  had  so  often  made  his  nights  at  Scaw  House 
terrible  had  never  come  to  him.  Now,  after  so  long  an 
interval  they  returned. 

He  thought  that  he  was  once  more  back  on  the  sea- 
road  above  Treliss,  that  the  wind  was  blowing  in  a  tempest 
and  that  the  sea  below  him  was  foaming  on  to  the  rocks. 
He  could  see  those  rocks  like  sharp  black  teeth,  stretching 
up  to  him — a  grey  sky  was  above  his  head  and  to  his  right 
stretched  the  grey  and  undulating  moor. 

Round  the  bend  of  the  road,  beyond  the  point  that  he 
could  see,  he  thought  that  Clare  Rossiter  was  waiting  for 
him.  He  must  get  there  before  it  struck  eleven  or  some- 
thing terrible  would  happen  to  him.  Only  a  few  minutes 
remained  to  him,  and  only  a  little  stretch  of  the  thin  white 
road,  but  two  things  prevented  his  progress;  first,  the  wind 
blew  so  fiercely  in  his  face  that  it  drove  him  back  and  for 
every  step  that  he  took  forward,  although  his  head  was 
bent  and  his  teeth  set,  he  seemed  to  lose  two.  Also,  across 
the  moor  voices  cried  to  him  and  they  seemed  to  him  like 
the  voices  of  Stephen  and  Bobby  Galleon,  and  they  were 
pleading  to  him  to  stop;  he  paused  to  listen  but  the  cries 
mingled  softly  with  the  wind  and  he  could  hear  bells  from 
the  town  below  the  road  begin  to  strike  eleven.  The  sweat 
was  pouring  from  him — she  was  waiting  for  him,  and  if 
he  did  not  reach  her  all  would  be  lost.  He  would  never 
see  her  again;  he  began  to  cry,  to  beat  against  the  wind 
with  his  hands.  The  voices  grew  louder,  the  wind  more 
vehement,  the  jagged  edges  of  the  rocks  sharper  in  their 
outline;  the  bells  were  still  striking,  but  as,  at  last,  breath- 
less, a  sharp  terror  at  his  heart,  he  turned  the  corner  there 

209 


«10  FORTITUDE 

fell  suddenly  a  silence.  At  last  he  was  there — only  a  few 
trees  blowing  a  little,  a  little  white  dust  curling  over  the 
road,  as  though  there  had  been  no  rain,  and  then  suddenly 
the  laughing  face  of  Cards,  no  longer  now  a  boy,  but  a 
man,  more  handsome  than  ever,  laughing  at  him  as  he  bat- 
tled round  the  corner. 

Cards  shouted  something  to  him,  suddenly  the  road  was 
gone  and  Peter  was  in  the  M-ater,  fighting  for  his  life.  He 
felt  all  the  breathless  terror  of  approaching  death — he  was 
sinking — black,  silent  water  rose  above  and  around  him. 
For  an  instant  he  caught  once  more  the  sight  of  sky  and 
land.  Cards  was  still  on  the  road  and  beside  him  was  a 
woman  whose  face  Peter  could  not  see.  Cards  was  still 
laughing.  Then  in  the  darkening  light  the  Grey  Hill  was 
visible  against  the  horizon  and  instead  of  the  Giant's  Fin- 
ger there  was  that  figure  of  the  rider  on  the  lion.  .  .  . 
The  waters  closed.  .  .  .  Peter  woke  to  a  grey,  stormy 
morning.  The  sweat  was  pouring  down  his  face,  his  body 
was  burning  hot  and  his  hands  were  trembling. 

II 

When  he  came  down  to  breakfast  his  head  was  aching 
and  heavy  and  Mrs.  Brockett's  boiled  eggs  and  hard 
crackling  toast  were  impossible.  Miss  Monogue  had  things 
to  tell  him  about  the  book — it  was  wonderful,  tremendous 
.  .  .  beyond  everything  that  she  had  believed  possible. 
But  strangely  enough,  he  was  scarcely  interested.  He  was 
pleased  of  course,  but  he  was  weiglited  with  the  sense  of 
overhanging  catastrophe.  The  green  bulging  curtains,  the 
row  of  black  beads  about  Mrs.  Brockett's  thin  neck,  the 
untidy   egg-shells — everj'thing  depressed   him. 

"  I  have  had  a  rotten  night,"  he  said,  "  nightmares.  I 
suppose   I   ate  something — anyhow  it's  a  gloomy  day." 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Monogue,  pinning  some  of  her  hair  in 
at  the  wrong  place  and  unpinning  other  parts  of  it  that 
happened  by  accident  to  be  right.  "  I'm  afraid  it's  a  poor 
sort  of  day  for  the  Procession.  But  Miss  Black  and  I  are 
going  to  do  our  best  to  see  it.  It  may  clear  up  later." 
He  had  forgotten  about  the  Procession  and  he  wished  that 
she  would  keep  her  hair  tidier. 


THE  BOOKSHOP  211 

He  wanted  to  ask  her  whether  she  had  seen  Miss  Ros- 
siter  but  had  not  the  courage.  A  little  misty  rain  made 
feathery  noises   against  the  window-pane. 

"  Well,  I  must  go  down  to  the  shop,"  he  said,  finding  his 
umbrella  in  the   hall. 

"  I  think  it's  superb,"  she  said,  referring  back  to  the 
book.  "  You  won't  be  having  to  go  down  to  the  shop  much 
longer." 

It  was  really  surprising  that  he  cared  so  little.  He 
banged  the  door  behind  him  and  did  not  see  her  e3'es  as 
she  watched  him  go. 

Processions  be  damned !  He  wished  that  the  wet,  shin- 
ing street  were  not  so  strangely  like  the  sea-road  at  Treliss, 
and  that  the  omnibuses  at  a  distance  did  not  murmur  like 
the  sea.  People,  black  and  funereal,  were  filling  stands 
down  Oxford  Street;  soldiers  were  already  lining  the  way, 
the  music  of  bands  could  be  heard  some  streets  away. 

He  was  in  a  thoroughly  bad  temper  and  scowled  at  the 
people  who  passed  him.  He  hated  Royal  Processions,  he 
hated  the  bookshop,  he  hated  all  his  friends  and  he  wished 
that  he  were  dead.  Here  he  had  been  seven  years,  he 
reflected,  and  nothing  had  been  done.  Where  was  his  cityj 
paved  with  gold  }     Where  his  Fame,  where  his  Glory }  ^,^ 

He  even  found  himself  envying  those  old  Treliss  days. 
There  at  any  rate  things  had  happened.  There  had  been 
an  air,  a  spirit.  Fighting  his  father — or  at  any  rate,  es- 
caping from  his  father — had  been  something  vital.  And 
here  he  was  now,  an  ill-tempered,  useless  youth,  earning 
two  pounds  a  week,  in  love  with  some  one  who  was  scarcely 
conscious  of  his  existence.     He  cursed  the  futility  of  it  all. 

And  so  fuming,  he  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  book- 
shop, and,  unwitting,  heedless,  left  for  ever  behind  him  the 
first  period  of  his  history. 

"  Programme  of  the  Royal  Procession,"  a  man  was 
shouting — "  Coloured  'Andkerchief  with  Programme  of 
Royal  Procession — " 

Peter,  stepping  into  the  dark  shop,  was  conscious  of 
Mr.  Zanti's  white  face  and  that  behind  him  was  standing 
Stephen. 

Ill 

At  the  sight  of  their  faces,  of  their  motionless  bodies 


«1«  FORTITUDE 

and  at  the  solemn  odd  expression  of  their  eyes  as  they 
looked  past  him  into  the  dark  expanse  of  the  door  through 
which  he  had  entered,  he  knew  tliat  something  was  very 
wrong. 

He  had  known  it,  plainly  enough,  by  the  fact  of 
Stephen's  presence  there,  but  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had 
known  it  from  his  first  awakening  that  morning  and  that  he 
was  only  waiting  to  change  into  hard  outline  the  misty 
shapelessness  of  his  earlier  fears.  But,  there  and  then,  he 
Was  to  know  nothing — 

Stephen  greeted  him  with  a  great  hand-shake  as  though 
he  had  met  him  only  the  day  before,  and  Mr.  Zanti  with  a 
smile  gave  him  his  accustomed  greeting.  In  the  doorway 
at  the  other  end  of  the  shop  the  Russian  girl  was  standing, 
one  arm  on  the  door-post,  staring,  with  her  dark  eyes, 
straight  through  into  the  gloomy  street. 

"What  are  you  all  waiting  for.-*"  Peter  said  to  the  mo- 
tionless figures.  With  his  words  they  seemed  at  once  to 
spring  to  life.  Mr.  Zanti  rolled  his  big  body  casually  to 
the  door  and  looked  down  the  street,  Stephen,  smiling  at 
Peter  said: 

"  I  was  just  passing,  so  I  thought  to  myself  I'd  just  look 
in,"  his  voice  came  from  his  beard  like  the  roll  of  the  sea 
from  a  cave.  "  Just  for  an  hour,  maybe.  It's  a  long  day 
since  we've  'ad  a  bit  of  a  chat,  Mr.  Peter." 

Peter  could  not  take  it  on  that  casual  scale.  Here  was 
Stephen  vanished  during  all  those  years,  returned  now  sud- 
denly and  with  as  little  fuss  as  possible,  as  though  indeed 
he  had  only  been  hiding  no  farther  than  behind  the  door 
of  the  shop  and  waiting  merely  to  walk  out  when  the  right 
moment  should  have  arrived.  If  he  had  been  no  farther 
than  that  then  it  was  unkind  of  him — he  might  have  known 
how  badly  Peter  had  wanted  him;  if,  on  the  other  hand, 
he  had  been  farther  afield,  then  he  should  show  more  ex- 
citement at  his  return. 

But,  Peter  thought,  it  was  impossible  to  recognise  in  the 
grave  reserved  figure  at  his  side  that  Stephen  who  had 
once  given  him  the  most  glorious  evening  of  his  life.  The 
connection  was  there  somewhere  but  many  things  must  have 
happened  between  those  years. 

"  Shall  we  go  and  have  luncheon  together?  "  Peter  asked. 


THE  BOOKSHOP  813 

Stephen  appeared  to  fling  a  troubled  look  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Mr.  Zanti's  broad  back.  He  hesitated.  "  Well," 
he  said  awkwardly,  "  I  don't  rightly  know.  I've  got  to  be 
going  out  for  an  hour  or  two — I  can't  rightly  say  as  I'll  be 
back.     This  afternoon,  maybe — " 

Peter  did  not  press  it  any  farther.  They  must  settle 
these  things  for  themselves,  but  what  was  the  matter  with 
them  all  this  morning  was  more  than  he  could  pretend  to 
discover. 

Stephen,  still  troubled,  went  out. 

Fortunately  there  was  this  morning  a  good  deal  of  work 
for  Peter  to  do.  A  large  number  of  second-hand  books 
had  arrived  during  the  day  before  and  they  must  be  cata- 
logued and  arranged.  Moreover  there  were  several  cus- 
tomers. A  young  lady  wanted  "  something  about  Wag- 
ner, just  a  description  of  the  plays,  you  know." 

"  Of   the   Operas,"   Peter   corrected. 

"  Oh,  well,  the  stories — that's  what  I  want — something 
about  two  shillings,  have  you?  I  don't  think  it's  really 
worth  more — but  so  that  one  will  know  where  one  is,  you 
know." 

She  was  bright  and  confidential.  She  had  thought  that 
everything  would  be  closed  because  of  the  Procession  .  .  . 
so  lucky — • 

A  short  red-faced  woman,  dressed  in  bright  colours,  and 
carrying  innumerable  little  parcels  wanted  "  Under  Two 
Flags,"  by  Mrs.  Henry  Wood. 

"  It's  by  Ouida,  Madam,"  Peter  told  her. 

"  Nonsense,  don't  tell  me.     As  if  I  didn't  know." 

Peter  produced  the  volume  and  showed  it  to  her.  She 
dropped  some  of  her  parcels — they  both  went  to  pick 
them  up. 

Red  in  the  face,  she  glared  at  him.  "  Really  it's  too 
provoking,  I  know  it  was  Mrs.  Henry  Wood  I  wanted." 

"  Perhaps  '  East  Lynne,'  or  '  The  Channings  ' — " 

"  Nonsense — don't  tell  me — it  was  '  Under  Two  Flags.*  " 

Finally  the  woman  put  both  "  Under  Two  Flags  "  and 
"  East  Lynne  "  into  her  bag  and  departed.  A  silence  fell 
upon  the  shop.  Herr  Gottfried  was  at  his  desk,  Mr.  Zanti 
at  the  street  door,  the  girl  at  the  door  of  the  inner  room,  they 
were  all  motionless.     Beyond  the  shop  the  murmur  of  the 


«14  FORTITUDE 

gathering  crowd  was  like  the  confused,  blundering  hum  of 
bees;  a  band  was  playing  stridently  in  Oxford  Street. 

Once  Peter  said:  "It  passes  about  three-thirty,  doesn't 
it?  I  think  I'll  just  go  out  and  have  a  look  later.  It'll 
be  fine  if  only  the  sun  comes." 

Mr.  Zanti  turned  slowly  round. 

"  I'm  afraid,  boy,"  he  said,  "  you'll  be  wanted  in  ze 
shop.  At  two  Herr  Gottfried  must  be  going  out  for  some 
business — zere  will  be  no  one — I  am  zo  zorry." 

They  wanted  to  keep  him  there,  that  was  evident.  Or, 
at  any  rate,  they  didn't  want  him  to  see  the  Procession. 

"Very  well,"  he  said  cheerfully,  "I'll  stay.  There'll 
be  plenty  more  Processions  before  I  die."  But  why,  why, 
why.^     What  was  there  that  they  wanted  him  to  avoid  .^ 

He  went  on  arranging  the  piles  of  dusty  books,  the 
sense  of  weighty  expectation  growing  on  him  with  every 
instant.  The  clock  struck  one,  but  he  did  not  go  out  to 
luncheon ;  the  others  were  still  motionless  in  their  places. 

Once  Herr  Gottfried  spoke:  "  The  people  will  have  been 
waiting  a  much-more-than-necessary  long  time,"  he  said. 
"  The  police  doubtless  have  frightened  them,  but  there  is 
still  room  to  walk  in  the  streets  and  there  have  been  some 
unfortunates,  since  early  in  the  morning — " 

The  street  beyond  the  shop  was  now  deserted  because 
soldiers  guarded  its  approach  into  Oxford  Street;  the  shop 
seemed  to  be  left  high  and  dry,  beyond  the  noise  and  con- 
fusion of  the  street. 

Then  there  came  into  the  silence  a  sharp  sound  that 
made  Peter  amongst  his  books,  jump  to  his  feet:  the  Rus- 
sian girl  was   crying. 

She  stood  there,  leaning  her  thin  dark  body  against 
the  side  of  the  door,  surely  the  most  desolate  figure  in  the 
world.  Her  hands  were  about  her  face,  her  body  hea\'ed 
with  her  sobbing  and  the  little  sad  noise  came  into  the  dusty 
tangled  room  and  hung  amongst  the  old  broken  books  as 
though  they  only  could  sympathise  and  give  it  shelter. 
The  band  in  Oxford  Street  was  blazing  with  sound  but  it 
did  not  hide  her  crying. 

Mr.  Zanti  crossed  to  her  and  spoke  to  her  but  she  sud- 
denly let  her  hands  fall  from  her  face  and  turned  upon 
him,  furiously,  wildly — "  You  .  .  ."  she  said,  "  You  .  .  ." 


THE  BOOKSHOP  ^15 

and  then  as  though  the  words  choked  her  she  turned  back 
into  the  inner  room.  Peter  saw  Mr.  Zanti's  face  and  it 
was  puckered  with  distress  like  a  child's.  It  was  almost 
laughable  in  its  helpless  dismay. 

Two  o'clock  struck.  "  They'll  be  starting  in  half  an 
hour,"   Herr  Gottfried  said. 

"  Women,"  Mr.  Zanti  said,  still  looking  distressfully 
about  him,  "  they  are,  in  truth,  very  difficult." 

And  now  there  was  no  pretence,  any  longer,  of  disguising 
the  nervous  tension  that  was  with  them  in  the  room. 
They  were  all  waiting  for  something — what  it  might  be 
Peter  did  not  know,  but,  with  every  tick  of  the  old  brass 
clock,  some   event  crept  more  nearly  towards  them. 

Then  Stephen  came  back. 

He  came  in  very  quietly  as  though  he  were  trying  to  keep 
the  note  of  agitation  that  he  must  have  felt  on  every  side 
of  him  as  near  the  normal  as  possible. 

His  face  above  his  beard  was  grey  and  streaky  and  his 
breath  came  rapidly  as  though  he  had  been  running. 
When  he  saw  Mr.  Zanti  his  hand  went  up  suddenly  in 
front  of  his  face  as  though  he  would  protect  himself  from 
the  other's   questioning. 

"  I've  'card  nothing — "  he  said  almost  sullenly  and  then 
he  turned  and  looked  at  Peter. 

"  Why  must  'e  be  'ere  ?  "  he  said  sharply  to  Zanti. 

"  Why  not  ?  Where  else  ?  "  the  other  answered  and  the 
two  men  watched  each  other  with  hostility  across  the  floor. 

"  I  wish  we'd  all  bloomin'  wull  kept  out  of  it,"  Stephen 
murmured  to  himself  it  seemed. 

Peter's  eyes  were  upon  Mr.  Zanti.  That  gentleman 
looked  more  like  a  naughty  child  than  ever.  In  his  eyes 
there  was  the  piteous  appeal  of  a  small  boy  about  to  be 
punished  for  some  grievous  fault.  In  some  strange  way 
Peter  was,  it  appeared,  his  court  of  appeal  because  he 
glanced  towards  him  again  and  again  and  then  looked  away. 

Peter  could  stand  it  no  longer.  He  got  up  from  the  place 
where  he  was  and  faced  them  all. 

"  What  is  it  f  What  have  you  all  done  ?  What  is  the 
matter  with  you  all.''  " 

The  Russian  girl  had  come  back.  Her  face  was  white 
and  her  hair  fell  untidily  about  her  eyes.     She  came  for- 


«16  FORTITUDE 

ward  fiercely  as  though  she  would  have  answered  Peter, 
but  Mr.  Zanti  motioned  her  back  with  his  hand. 

"  No,  no,"  he  said  almost  imploringly,  "  let  the  boy  be 
— what  has  he  to  do  with  all  this.''  Leave  him.  He  has 
nothing  to  do  with  it.     He  knows  nothing." 

"  But  I  ought  to  know,"  Peter  burst  in.  "  Why  have  I 
been  kept  in  the  dark  all  this  time?  WHiat  right  have 
you — " 

He  broke  off  suddenly.  Absolute  silence  fell  amongst 
them  all  and  they  stood  looking  at  the  door,  motionless, 
in  their  places.  There  was  a  new  note  in  the  murmuring 
of  the  crowd,  and  the  swift  steady  passing  of  it  came  up 
the  street  to  the  shop  and  in  at  the  door.  Voices  could  be 
heard  rising  above  others,  and  then  the  eager  passing  of 
some  piece  of  news  from  one  to  another. 

No  one  in  the  shop  spoke.  Outside  in  the  deserted 
street  there  was  silence  and  then  the  bands,  as  though 
driven  by  some  common  wave  of  feeling,  seemed  at  the 
same  moment  to  burst  into  a  blare  of  music.  Some  voice, 
from  the  crowd,  started  "  God  save  the  Queen  "  and  im- 
mediately it  was  taken  up  and  flung  into  the  air  by  a  thou- 
sand voices.  They  must  give  vent  to  their  feelings,  some 
news  had  passed  down  the  crowds  like  a  flame  setting  fire 
to  a  chain  of  beacons. 

"  What  is  it } "  Peter  pressed  forwards  to  the  door. 
And  at  once  he  was  answered.  Men  were  running  past  the 
shop,  crying  out;  one  stopped  for  an  instant  and,  wild  with 
excitement,  his  hands  gesticulating,  stammering,  the  words 
tumbling  from  his  lips,  he  shouted  at  them — "  They've  bin 
flinging  bombs  .  .  .  dirty  foreigners  ...  up  there  by  the 
Marble  Arch — flinging  them  at  the  Old  Lady.  But  it's 
all  right,  by  Gawd — only  blew  'imself  up,  dirty  foreigner 
— little  bits  of  'im  and  no  one  else  'urt  and  now  the  Old 
Lady's  comin'  down  the  street — she'll  be  'ere  in  quarter 
of  an  'our  and  won't  we  show  'er  .  .  .  by  Gawd  .  .  . 
flingin'  their  dirty  bombs  up  there  by  the  Marble  Arch  and 
killin'  nobody  but  'imself — JGawd  save  the  Old  Lady — "  he 
rushed  on. 

So  that  was  it.  Peter,  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  looked  at  them  all  and  understood  at  last  amongst 
whom  be  had  been  working  these  seven  years.     They  were; 


THE  BOOKSHOP  «17 

murderers,  the  lot  of  them — all  of  them — Gottfried,  Zanti 
.  .  .  Stephen — Oh  God!  Stephen!  He  understood  now 
for  what  they  had  been  waiting. 

He  turned  sick  at  the  sudden  realisation  of  it.  It  did 
not,  at  first,  seem  to  touch  himself  in  any  way.  At  the 
first  immediate  knowledge  of  it  he  had  been  faced  by  its 
amazing  incongruity.  There  by  the  Marble  Arch,  with 
bands  flying,  flags  waving,  in  all  the  tumult  of  a  Royal 
Progress  some  one  had  been  blown  into  little  pieces.  Else- 
where there  were  people  waiting,  eating  buns  out  of  paper 
bags,  and  here  in  the  shop  the  sun  lighted  the  backs  of 
rows  of  second-hand  novels  and  down  in  Treliss  the  water 
was,  very  gently,  lapping  the  little  wooden  jetty.  Oh! 
the  silly  jumbling  of  things  in  this  silly  jumbling  world! 

And  then  he  began  to  look  more  closely  into  it  as  it  con- 
cerned himself.  He  saw  with  amazing  clearness.  He 
knew  that  it  was  Oblotzky  the  tall  Russian  who  had  been 
killed.  He  knew  because  Oblotzky  was  the  lover  of  this 
Russian  girl  and  he  turned  round  to  watch  her,  curiously, 
as  one  who  was  outside  it  all.  She  was  standing  with  her 
back  against  the  wall,  her  hands  spread  out  flat,  looking 
through  the  door  into  the  bright  street,  seeing  none  of 
them.  Then  she  turned  and  said  something  in  Russian 
between  her  clenched  teeth  to  Mr.  Zanti.  He  would  have 
answered  her  but  very  quietly  and  speaking  now  in  Eng- 
lish she  flung  at  him,  as  though  it  had  been  a  stone: 

"  God  curse  you !  You  drove  him  to  it !  "  Then  she 
turned  round  and  left  the  room.  But  the  tall  man  was 
blubbering  like  a  child.  He  had  turned  round  to  them  all, 
with  his  hands  outstretched,  appealing: 

"  But  it's  not  true !  "  he  cried  between  his  sobs,  "  it's  not 
true!  I  did  all  I  could  to  stop  them — I  did  not  know 
that  they  would  do  things — not  really — until  now,  this 
morning,  when  it  was  too  late.  It  is  the  others,  Sergius, 
Paslov,  Odinsky — zey  were  always  wild,  desperate.  But 
we,  the  rest  of  us,  with  us  it  was  only  tall  words." 

Little  Herr  Gottfried,  who  had  been  silent  behind  them, 
came  forward  now  and  spoke: 

"  It  is  too  late,"  he  said,  "  for  this  crying  like  a  baby. 
We  have  no  time — we  must  consider  what  must  be  done. 
li  it  is  truC;,  what  that  man  says  that  Oblotzky  has  blowoi 


218  FORTITUDE 

himself  up  and  no  other  is  touched  then  no  harm  is  done. 
Why  regret  the  Russian?  He  wanted  a  violent  end  and 
he  has  got  it — and  he  has  given  it  to  no  other.  Often 
enough  we  are  not  so  fortunate.  He  will  have  spoken  to 
no  one.     We  are  safe."     Then  he  turned  to  Peter: 

"  Poor  boy,"  he  said. 

But  Peter  was  not  there  to  be  pitied.  He  had  only  one 
thought,  "Stephen,  tell  me — tell  me.  You  did  not  know? 
You  had  nothing  to  do  with  this?  " 

Stephen  turned  and  faced  him.  "  No,  Peter  boy,  noth- 
ing. I  did  not  know  what  they  were  at.  They — Zanti 
there — 'ad  'elped  me  when  I  was  in  trouble  years  ago. 
They've  given  me  jobs  before  now,  but  tliey've  always  been 
bunglers  and  now,  thank  the  Lord,  they've  bungled  again. 
You  come  with  me,  Mr.  Peter — come  along  from  it  all. 
We'll  manage  something.  I've  only  been  waiting  until  you 
wanted   me." 

Zanti  turned  furiously  upon  him  but  the  words  that  he 
would  have  spoken  were  for  the  moment  held.  The  Pro- 
cession was  passing.  The  roar  of  cheering  came  up  against 
the  walls  of  the  shop  like  waves  against  the  rocks;  the 
windows  shook.  There  she  was,  the  little  Old  Lady  in 
her  black  bonnet,  sitting  smiling  and  bowing,  and  some- 
where behind  her  a  little  dust  had  been  bloM'n  into  the  air, 
had  hung  for  a  moment  about  her  and  then  had  once  more 
settled  down  into  the  other  dust   from  which  it  had  come. 

That  was  all.  In  front  of  her  were  the  Royal  Person- 
ages, on  every  side  of  her  her  faithful  subjects  .  .  .  only  a 
cloud  of  dust  had  given  occasion  for  a  surer  sign  of  her 
people's  devotion.     Tliat,  at  any  rate,  Oblotzky  had  done. 

The   carriage   passed. 

Mr.  Zanti  now  faced  Peter. 

"  Peter — Boy — you  must  believe  me.  I  did  not  know, 
believe  me,  I  did  not.  They  had  talked  and  I  had  listened 
but  there  is  so  much  talk  and  never  anything  is  done. 
Peter,  you  must  not  go,  you  must  not  leave  me.  You  would 
break  my  'cart — " 

"  All  these  years,"  Peter  said,  "  you  have  let  me  be  here 
while  you  have  deceived  me  and  blinded  me.  I  am  going 
now  and  I  pray  to  God  that  I  may  never  see  you  again." 

"  No,    Boy,   listen.     You   must   not   go    Uke    this.     'Ave 


THE  BOOKSHOP  S19 

I  not  been  good  to  you?  'Ave  I  ever  made  you  do  any- 
thing wrong?  'Ave  I  not  always  kept  you  out  of  these 
things?  You  are  the  only  person  zat  I  'ave  ever  loved. 
You  'ave  become  my  son  to  me.  I  am  not  wicked.  I 
was  not  one  of  these  men — these  anarchists — but  it  is  only 
that  all  my  life  I  'ave  wanted  adventure,  what  you  call 
Ro-mance.  And  I  'ave  found  it  'ere,  there — one  place, 
anuzzer  place.  But  it  'as  never  been  wicked — I  'ave  never 
'armed  a  soul.  What  zat  girl  says  it  is  not  true — I  would 
'ave  done  all  to  stop  it  if  I  could.  But  you — if  you  leave 
me  now,  I  am  all  alone.  There  is  no  one  in  the  world  for 
me — a  poor  old  man — but  if  you  will  be  with  me  I  will 
show  you  wonderful  things. 

"  See,"  he  went  on  eagerly,  almost  breathlessly,  "  we 
*ave  been  socialists  'ere,  what  you  will.  We  'ave  talked 
and  talked.  It  amuses  me — to  intrigue,  to  pretend,  to  'ave 
games — one  day  it  is  Treason,  another  Brigands,  another 
Travel — what  you  will.  But  never,  never,  never  danger  to 
a  soul.  Now  only  this  morning  did  I  'ear  that  they  were 
going  to  do  this.  Always  it  had  been  words  before — but 
this  morning  I  got  a  rumour.  But  it  was  only  rumour.  I 
'ad  not  enough  to  be  sure  of  my  news.  Stephen  here  and 
I — we  could  do  nozzing — we  'ad  no  time — I  did  not  know 
where  Oblotzky  was — this  girl  'ere  did  not  know — I  could 
do  nozzing — Peter,  believe  me,  believe  me — " 

The  man  was  no  scoundrel.  It  was  plain  enough  as  he 
stood  there,  his  eyes  simple  as  a  child's,  pleading  still  like 
a  small  boy. 

A  minute  ago  Peter  had  hated  him,  now  he  crossed  over 
and  put  his  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  You  have  been  wonderfully  good  to  me,"  he  said.  "  I 
owe  you  everything.  But  I  must  go — all  this  has  only 
made  sure  what  I  have  been  knowing  this  long  time  that 
I  ought  to  do.  I  can't — I  mustn't — depend  on  your  charity 
any  longer — it  has  been  too  long  as  it  is.  I  must  be  on 
my  own  and  then  one  day,  when  I  have  proved  myself,  I 
will  come  back  to  you." 

"  No — Peter,  Boy — come  with  me  now.  I  will  show  you 
wonderful  things  all  over  Europe;  we  will  have  adventures. 
There  is  gold  in  Cornwall  in  a  place  I  know.  There  is  a 
place  in  Germany  where  there  is  treasure — ze  world  is  full 


220  FORTITUDE  ' 

of  ze  most  wonderful  things  that  I  know  and  you  and  I — 
we  two — Oh !  ze  times  we  all  'ave — " 

"  No,"  .  .  .  Peter  drew  back.  "  That  is  not  my  way. 
I  am  going  to  make  my  living  here,  in  London — or  die 
for  it." 

"  No — you  must  not.  You  will  succeed — you  will  grow 
fat  and  sleepy  and  ze  good  things  of  the  world  and  ze 
many  friends  will  kill  your  soul.  I  know  it  .  .  .  but  come 
with  me,  first  and  we  will  'are  adventures  .  .  .  and  sen 
you  shall  write." 

But  Peter's  face  was  set.  The  time  for  the  new  life  had 
come.  Up  to  this  moment  he  had  been  passive,  he  had 
used  his  life  as  an  instrument  on  which  others  might  play. 
From  henceforward  his  should  be  the  active  part. 

The  crowds  were  pouring  up  the  street  on  their  home- 
ward way.  Bands  were  playing  the  soldiers  back  to  the 
barracks.  Soon  the  streets  would  have  only  the  paper  bags 
left  to  them  for  company.  The  little  bookshop  hung,  with 
its  misty  shelves  about  the  three  men.  .  .  .  Somewhere  in 
another  room,  a  girl  was  staring  with  white  set  face  and 
burning  eyes  in  front  of  her,  for  her  lover  was  dead  and 
the  world  had  died  with  him. 

After  a  little  time  amongst  the  second-hand  novels  Mr. 
Zanti  sat,  his  great  head  buried  in  his  hands,  the  tears 
trickling  down  through  his  fingers,  and  Herr  Gottfried,  mo- 
tionless from  behind  his  counter  watched  him  in  silent  sym- 
pathy. 

Peter  emd  Stephen  had  gone  together. 


CHAPTER  V 
A  NARROW  STREET 


THE  bomb  was,  that  evening,  the  dominant  note  of  the 
occasion.  Through  the  illuminated  streets,  the  slowly 
surging  crowds — inhuman  in  their  abandon  to  the  monot- 
onous ebb  and  flow  as  of  a  sweeping  river — the  cries  and 
laughter  and  shouting  of  songs,  that  note  was  above  all. 
An  eye-witness — a  Mr.  Frank  Harris,  butcher  of  82  Cheap- 
side — had  his   veracious  account  journalistically  doctored. 

"  I  was  standing  quite  close  to  the  man,  a  foreigner  of 
course,  with  a  dirty  hanging  black  moustache — tall,  big  fel- 
low, with  coat  up  over  his  ears — I  must  say  that  I  wasn't 
looking  at  him.  I  had  Mrs.  Harris  with  me  and  was  try- 
ing to  get  her  a  place  where  she  could  see  better,  you  un- 
derstand. Then  suddenly — before  one  was  expecting  it — 
the  Procession  began  and  I  forgot  the  man,  the  foreigner, 
although  he  was  quite  up  close  against  me.  One  was  ex- 
cited of  course — a  most  moving  sight — and  then  suddenly, 
when  by  the  distant  shouting  we  understood  that  the  Queen 
was  approaching,  I  saw  the  man  break  through.  I  was 
conscious  of  the  man's  vigour  as  he  rushed  past — he  must 
have  been  immensely  strong — because  there  he  was,  through 
the  soldiers  and  everybody — out  in  the  middle  of  the 
street.  It  all  happened  so  quickly  of  course.  I  heard 
vaguely  that  some  one  was  shouting  and  I  think  a  police- 
man started  forward,  but  anyhow  the  man  raised  his  arm 
and  in  an  instant  there  was  the  explosion.  It  went  off  be- 
fore he  was  ready  I  suppose,  but  the  ground  rocked  under 
one's  feet.  Two  soldiers  fell,  unhurt,  I  have  learnt  since. 
There  was  a  hideous  dust,  horses  plunging  and  men  shout- 
ing and  then  suddenly  silence.  The  dust  cleared  and  there 
was  a  hole  in  the  ground,  stones  rooted  up  ...  no  sign  of 
the  man  but  some  pieces  of  cloth  and  men  had  rushed  for« 

221 


222  FORTITUDE 

ward  and  covered  something  up — a  limb  I  suppose.  .  .  . 
I  was  only  anxious  of  course  that  my  wife  should  see  noth- 
ing .  .  .  she    was    considerably    affected.  .  .  ." 

So  Mr.  Harris  of  Cheapsidc,  with  the  assistance  of  an 
eager  and  talented  young  journalist.  But  the  fact  re- 
mained in  the  heart  of  the  crowd — blasted  foreigner  had 
had  a  shot  at  the  Old  Lady  and  missed  her,  therefore  what- 
ever gaiety  may  have  been  originally  intended  let  it  now 
be   redoubled,   shouted    into    frenzy — and    frenzy   it   was. 

"  There  was  no  clue,"  an  evening  paper  added  to  the 
criminal's  identity.  .  .  .  The  police  were  blamed,  of  course. 
.  .  .  Such  a  thing  must  never  be  allowed  to  occur  again. 
It  was  rep>orted  that  the  Queen  had  in  no  way  suffered 
from   the  shock — was   in   capital   health. 

Outside  the  bookshop  Stephen  and  Peter  had  parted. 

"  I'll  meet  you  about  half- past  ten,  Trafalgar  Square  by 
the  lion  that  faces  Whitehall ;  I  must  go  back  to  Brockett's, 
have  supper  and  get  my  things,  and  say  good-bye.  Then 
I'll  join  you  .  .  .  half-past  ten." 

"  Peter  boy,  we'll  have  to  rough  it — " 

"Oh!  at  last!  Life's  beginning.  We'll  soon  get  work, 
both  of  us — where  do  you  mean  to  go?  " 

"  There's  a  place  I  been  before — down  East  End — not 
much  of  a  place  for  your  sort,  but  just  for  a  bit.  .  .  ." 

For  a  moment  Peter's  thoughts  swept  back  to  the  shop. 

"  Poor  Zanti ! "  He  half  turned.  "  After  so  many 
years  .  .  .  the  good  old  chap."  Then  he  pulled  himself 
up  and  set  his  shoulders.     "  Well,  half-past  ten — " 

The  streets  were,  at  the  instant,  almost  deserted. 
It  was  about  five  o'clock  now  and  at  seven  o'clock  they  would 
be  closed  to  all  traffic.  Then  the  surging  crowds  would 
come  sweeping  down. 

Peter,  furiously  excited,  hurried  through  the  grimy  deserts 
of  Bloomsbury,  to  Brockett's.  To  his  singing,  beating  heart 
the  thin  ribbon  of  the  grey  street  with  the  faint  dim  blue 
of  the  evening  sky  was  out  of  place,  ill-judged  as  a  setting 
to  his  exultations.  He  had  swept  in  the  tempestuous  way 
that  was  natural  to  him,  the  shop  and  all  that  it  had  been 
to  him,  behind  him.  Even  Brockett's  must  go  with  the 
rest.  Of  course  he  could  not  stay  there  now  that  the 
weekly  two  pounds  had  stopped.     He  quite  savagely  desired 


THE  BOOKSHOP  S23 

to  be  free  from  all  business.  These  seven  years  had  been 
well  enough  as  a  preparation ;  now  at  last  he  was  to  be 
flung^  head  foremost,  into  life. 

He  could  have  sung,  he  could  have  shouted.  He  burst 
through  the  heavy  doors  of  Brockett's.  But  there,  inside 
the  quiet  and  solemn  building,  another  mood  seized  him. 
He  crept  quietly,  on  tiptoe,  up  to  his  room  because  he  did 
not  want  to  see  any  of  them  before  supper.  After  all,  he 
was  leaving  the  best  friends  that  he  had  ever  had,  the  only 
home  that  he  had  ever  really  known.  Mrs.  Brockett,  Norah 
Monogue,  Robin,  the  Signor.  .  .  .  Seven  years  is  a  long 
time  and  one  gets  fond  of  a  place.  He  closed  his  bedroom 
door  softly  behind  him.  The  little  room  had  been  very 
much  to  him  during  all  these  years,  and  that  view  over  the 
London  roofs  would  never  be  forgotten  by  him.  But  he 
wondered,  as  he  looked  at  it,  how  he  had  ever  been  able  to 
sit  there  so  quietly  and  write  "  Reuben  Hallard."  Now,  be- 
tween his  writing  and  himself,  a  thousand  things  were  sweep- 
ing. Far  away  he  saw  it  like  the  height  of  some  inaccessible 
hill — his  emotions,  his  adventures,  the  excitement  of  life 
made  his  thoughts,  his  ideas,  thinner  than  smoke.  He  even, 
standing  there  in  his  little  room  and  looking  over  the  Lon- 
don roofs,  despised  the  writer's  inaction.  .  .  .  Often  again 
he  was  to  know  that  rivalry. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  before  supper  he  went  down  to  say 
good-bye  to  Miss  Monogue.  She  was  sitting  quietly  read- 
ing and  he  thought  suddenly,  as  he  came  upon  her,  there 
under  the  light  of  her  candles  in  the  grey  room,  that  she 
did  not  look  well.  He  had  never  during  their  seven  years' 
friendship,  noticed  anything  before,  and  now  he  could  not 
have  said  what  it  was  that  he  saw  except  perhaps  that  her 
cheeks  were  flushed  and  that  there  were  heavy  dark  lines 
beneath  her  eyes.  But  she  seemed  to  him,  as  he  took  her, 
thus  unprepared,  with  her  untidy  hair  and  her  white  cheap 
evening  dress  that  showed  her  thin  fragile  arms,  to  be  some- 
thing that  he  was  leaving  to  face  the  world  alone,  some- 
thing very  delicate  that  he  ought  not  to  leave. 

Then  she  looked  up  and  saw  him  and  put  her  book  down 
and  smiled  at  him  and  was  the  old  cheerful  Norah  Monogue 
whom  he  had  always  known. 

He  stood  with  his  legs  apart  facing  her  and  told  her: 


224  FORTITUDE 

"I've  come  to  say  good-bye." 

"  Good-bye  ?  " 

"  Yes — I'm  going  to-night.  What  I've  been  expecting 
for  80  long  has  happened  at  last.  There's  been  a  blow  up 
at  the  bookshop  and  I've  got  to  go." 

For  an  instant  the  colour  left  her  face;  her  book  fell  to 
the  ground  and  she  put  her  hand  back  on  the  arm  of  the 
chair  to   steady  herself. 

"  Oh !  how  silly  of  me  .  .  .  never  mind  picking  it  up. 
.  .  .  Oh  thank  you,  Peter.  You  gave  me  quite  a  shock, 
telling  me  like  that.     We  shall  all  miss  you  dreadfully." 

His  affection  for  her  was  strong  enough  to  break  in  upon 
the  great  overwhelming  excited  exultation  that  had  held  him 
all  the  evening.  He  was  dreadfully  sorry  to  leave  her! 
.  .  .  dear  Norah  Monogue,  what  a  pal  she'd  been! 

"  I  shall  miss  you  horribly,"  he  said  with  that  note  in 
his  voice  that  showed  that,  above  all  things,  he  wished  to 
avoid  a  scene.  "  We've  been  such  tremendous  pals  all  this 
time — you've  been  such  a  brick — I  don't  know  what  I  should 
have  done.  .  .  ."  He  pulled  himself  up.  "  But  it's  got 
to  be.  I've  felt  it  coming  you  know  and  it's  time  I  really 
lashed  out  for  myself." 

"Where    are   you    going?" 

"  Ah !  I  must  keep  that  dark  for  a  bit.  There's  been 
trouble  at  the  bookshop.  It'll  be  all  right  I  expect  but  I 
don't  want  Mother  Brockett  to  stand  any  chance  of  being 
mixed  up  in  it.  I  shall  just  disappear  for  a  week  or  two 
and  then  I'll  be  back  again." 

She  smiled  at  him  bravely :  "  Well,  I  won't  ask  what's 
happened,  if  you  don't  want  to  tell  me,  but  of  course — I 
shall  miss  you.  After  seven  years  it  seems  so  abrupt. 
And,  Peter,  do  take  care  of  yourself." 

"  Oh,  I  shall  be  all  right."     He  was  very  gruff.     He  felt 
now  a  furious  angry  reluctance  at  leaving  her  behind.     He 
stormed  at  himself  as  a   fool;   one  of  the  things  that  the^ 
•  strong  man  must  learn  of  life  is  to  be  ruthless  in  these  / 
C    partings  and  breaking  of  relations.     He  stood  further  away 
^  from  her  and  spoke  as  though  he  hated  being  there. 

She  understood  him  with  wonderful  tenderness. 

"  Well,"  she  said  cheerfully,  "  I  daresay  it  will  be  better 
for  jou  to  try  for  a  little  and  see  what  you  can  make  of  it 


THE  BOOKSHOP  1285 

all.  And  then  if  you  want  anything  you'll  come  back  to 
us,  "won't  you?  .  .  .  You  promise  that?  " 

"  Of  course." 

"  And  then  there's  the  book.  I  know  that  man  in  Heriot 
and  Lord's  that  I  told  you  about.  I'll  send  it  to  them  right 
away,  if  you  like." 

"  Aren't  they  rather  tremendous  people  for  me  to  begin 
with  ?     Oughtn't  I  to  begin  with  some  one  smaller  ?  " 

"  Oh !  there's  no  harm  in  starting  at  the  top.  They  can't 
do  more  than  refuse  it.  But  I  don't  think  they  will.  I  be- 
lieve in  it.     But  how  shall  I  let  you  know  what  they  say  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I'll  come  in  a  week  or  two  and  see  what's  happening 
— I'll  be  on  a  paper  by  then  probably.  I  say,  I  don't  want 
the  others  to  know.  I'll  have  supper  with  them  as  usual 
and  just  tell  Mother  Brockett  afterwards.  I  don't  want 
to  have  to  say  good-bye  lots  of  times.  Well " — he  moved 
off  awkwardly  towards  the  door — "  You've  been  most  tre- 
mendously good  to  me." 

"  Rot,   Peter :     Don't   forget  me !  " 

"  Forget  you !  The  best  pal  I've  ever  had."  They 
clasped  hands  for  a  moment.  There  was  a  pause  and  then 
Peter  said:  "I  say — ^there  is  a  thing  you  can  do  if  you 
like—" 

"  Yes  ?— anything— " 

"  Well — about  Miss  Rossiter — ^you'll  be  seeing  her  I  sup- 
pose ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  often—" 

"  Well,  you  might  just  keep  her  in  mind  of  me.  I  know 
it  sounds  silly  but — just  a  word  or  two,  sometimes." 

He  felt  that  he  was  blushing — their  hands  separated. 
She  moved  back  from  him  and  pushed  at  her  hair  in  the 
nervous  way  that  she  had. 

"  Why,  of  course — she  was  awfully  interested.  She 
won't  forget  you.  Well,  we'll  meet  at  supper."  She  moved 
back  with  a  last  little  nod  at  him  and  he  went  awkwardly 
out  of  the  room  with  a  curious  little  sense  of  sudden  dismis- 
sal. Would  she  rather  he  didn't  know  Miss  Rossiter,  he 
vaguely  wondered.     Women  were  such  queer  creatures. 

As  he  went  downstairs  he  wondered  with  a  sudden  almost 
shameful  confusion  whether  he  was  responsible  in  some  way 
for   the   awkwardness   that  the   scene  had  had.     He  had 


226  FORTITUDE 

noticed  lately  that  she  had  not  been  quite  herself  when  he 
had  been  with  her — that  she  would  stop  in  the  middle  of  a 
sentence,  that  she  would  be,  for  instance,  vexed  at  some- 
thing he  said,  that  she  would  look  at  him  sometimes  as 
though  .  .  . 

He  pulled  himself  up.  He  was  angry  with  himself  for 
imagining  such  a  thing — as  though  .  .  .  Well,  women  were 
strange  creatures.  .  .  . 

And  then  supper  was  more  difficult  than  he  had  expected. 
They  would  show  him,  the  silly  things,  that  they  were  fond 
of  him  j  ust  when  he  would  much  rather  have  persuaded  him- 
self that  they  hated  him.  It  was  almost,  as  he  told  himself 
furiously,  as  though  they  knew  that  he  was  going;  Norah 
Monogue  was  the  only  person  who  chattered  and  laughed 
in  a  natural  way;  he  was  rather  relieved  that  after  all  she 
seemed  to  care  so  little. 

He  found  that  he  couldn't  eat.  There  was  a  silly  lump 
in  his  throat  and  he  looked  at  the  marble  pillars  and  the 
heavy  curtains  through  a  kind  of  mist.  .  .  .  Especially  was 
there  Robin.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Tressiter  told  him  that  Robin  had  something  very 
important  to  say  to  him  and  that  he  was  going  to  stay 
awake  until  he,  Peter,  came  up  to  him. 

"  I  told  him,"  she  said,  "  that  he  must  lie  down  and  go 
to  sleep  like  a  good  boy  and  that  his  father  would  punish 
him  if  he  didn't.  But  there!  ^Vhat's  the  use  of  it.''  He 
isn't  afraid  of  his  father  the  slightest.  He  would  gfo  on^ 
something  about  a  lion.  .  .  ." 

At  any  rate  this  gave  Peter  an  excuse  to  escape  from  the 
table  and  it  was,  indeed,  time,  for  they  had  all  settled,  like 
a  clatter  of  hens,  on  to  the  subject  of  the  bomb,  and  they 
all  had  a  great  deal  to  say  about  it  and  a  great  many  ques- 
tions to  ask  Peter. 

"  It's  these  Foreigners  ...  of  course  our  Police  are 
entirely  inadequate," 

"  Yes — that's  what  I  say — the  Police  are  really  absurdly 
inadequate — " 

"If  they  will  allow  these  foreigners — " 

"  Yes,  what  can  you  expect — and  the  Police  really 
can't—" 


THE  BOOKSHOP  227 

Peter  escaped  to  Robin.  He  glowered  down  at  the  child 
who  was  sitting  up  in  his  cot  counting  the  flowers  on  the 
old  wall-paper  to  keep  himself  awake. 

"  I  always  am  so  muddled  after  fourteen,"  he  said. 
"  Never  mind,  I'm  not  sleeping — " 

Peter  frowned  at  him.  "  You  ought  to  have  been  asleep 
long  ago,"  he  said.  He  wished  the  boy  hadn't  got  his  hair 
tousled  in  that  absurdly  fascinating  way  and  that  his  cheeks 
weren't  flushed  so  beautiful  a  red — also  his  night-gown  had 
lost  a  button  at  the  top  and  showed  a  very  white  little  neck. 
Peter  blinked  his  eyes — "  Look  here,  kid,  you  must  go  to 
sleep  right  away  at  once.     What  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  It's  that  lion — the  one  the  lady  had — I  want  it." 

"  You  can't  have  it — the  lady's  got  it." 

"  Well — take  me  to  see  them — the  real  ones — there  are 
lots  somewhere  Mother  says."  Robin  inserted  his  very 
small  hand  into  Peter's  large  one. 

"  All  right,  one  day — we'll  go  to  the  Zoo." 

Robin  sighed  with  satisfaction — he  lay  down  and  mur- 
mured sleepily  to  himself,  "  I  love  Mister  Peter  and  lions 
and  Mother  and  God,"  and  was  suddenly  asleep. 

Peter  bent  down  over  the  cot  and  kissed  him.  He  felt 
miserably  wretched.  He  had  known  nothing  like  it  since 
that  day  when  he  had  said  good-bye  to  his  mother.  He  won- 
dered that  he  could  ever  have  felt  any  exultation;  he  won- 
dered that  writing  and  glory  and  ambition  could  ever  have 
seemed  worth  anything  to  him  at  all.  Could  he  have  had  his 
prayer  granted  he  would  have  prayed  that  he  might  always 
stay  in  Brockett's,  always  have  these  same  friends,  watch 
over  Robin  as  he  grew  up,  talk  to  Norah  Monogue — and  then 
all  the  others  .  .  .  and  Mr.  Zanti.  He  felt  fourteen  years 
old  .  .  .  more  miserable  than  he  had  ever  been. 

He  kissed  Robin  again  —  then  he  went  down  to  find  Mrs. 
Brockett.  Here,  too,  he  was  faced  with  an  unexpected 
difliculty.  The  good  lady,  listening  to  him  sternly  in  her 
grim  little  sitting-room,  refused  to  hear  of  his  departure. 
She  sat  upright  in  her  stiff  chair,  her  thin  black  dress  in 
folds  about  her,  the  gas-light  shining  on  her  neatly  parted 
hair. 

"  You  see,  Mrs.  Brockett,"  he  explained  to  her,  "  I'm 


228  FORTITUDE 

no  longer  in  the  same  position.  I  can't  be  sure  of  my  two 
pounds  a  week  any  more  and  so  it  wouldn't  be  right  for  me 
to  live  in  a  place  like  this." 

"If  it's  expense  that  you're  thinking  about,"  she  an- 
swered him  grimly,  "  you're  perfectly  welcome  to  stay  on 
here  and  pay  me  when  you  can.  I'm  sure  that  one  day 
with  so  clever  a  young  man — " 

"  That's  awfully  good  of  you,  Mrs.  Brockett,  but  of 
course  I  couldn't  hear  of  anything  like  that."  For  the 
third  time  that  evening  he  had  to  fight  against  a  disposition 
to  blow  his  nose  and  be  absurd.  They  were,  both  of  them, 
increasingly  grim  with  every  word  that  they  spoke  and  any 
outside  observer  would  have  supposed  that  they  were  the 
deadliest  of  enemies. 

"  Of  course,"  she  began  again,  "  there's  a  room  that  I 
could  let  you  have  at  the  back  of  the  house  that's  only  four 
shillings  a  week  and  really  you'd  be  doing  me  a  kindness  in 
taking  it  off  my  hands.     I'm  sure — " 

"  No,  there's  more  in  it  than  that,"  he  answered.  "  I've 
got  to  go  away — right  away.  It's  time  I  had  a  change  of 
scene.  It's  good  for  me  to  get  along  a  bit  by  myself. 
You've  all  been  too  kind  to  me,  spoilt  me — " 

She  stood  up  and  faced  him  sternly.  "  In  all  my  years," 
she  said,  "  I've  never  spoilt  anybody  yet  and  I'm  not  likely 
to  be  going  to  begin  now.  Spoilt  you !  Bah !  "  She  al- 
most snorted  at  him — but  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  I'm  not  a  philanthropist,"  she  went  on  more  dryly  than 
ever,  "  but  I  like  to  have  you  about  the  house — you  keep 
the  lodgers  contented  and  the  babies  quiet.  I'm  sure,"  and 
the  little  break  in  her  voice  was  the  first  sign  of  submission, 
"  that  we've  been  very  good  friends  these  seven  years  and 
it  isn't  everywhere  that  one  can  pick  up  friends  for  the 
asking — " 

"  You've  been  splendid  to  me,"  he  answered.  "  But  it 
isn't  as  though  I  were  going  away  altogether — you'll  see 
me  back  in  a  week  or  two.  And — and — I  say  I  shall  make 
a  fool  of  myself  if  I  go  on  talking  like  this — " 

He  suddenly  gripped  her  hand  and  wrung  it  again  and 
again — then  he  burst  away  from  her,  leaving  her  standing 
there  in  tlie  middle  of  the  room. 

The  old  block  bag  was  very  soon  packed^  his  possessiona  , 


THE  BOOKSHOP  «29 

had  not  greatly  increased  during  these  seven  years,  and  soon 
he  was  creeping  down  the  stairs  softly  so  that  no  one  should 
hear. 

The  hall  was  empty.     He  gave  it  one  last  friendly  look, 
the  door  had  closed  behind  him  and  he  was  in  the  street. 


In  its  exuberance  and  high  spirits  and  general  lack  of 
self-control  London  was  similar  to  a  small  child  taken  to 
the  Drury  Lane  Pantomime  for  the  first  time.  Of  the 
numbers  of  young  men  who,  with  hats  on  the  back  of 
their  heads,  passed  arm-in-arm  down  the  main  thorough- 
fares announcing  it  as  their  definite  opinion  that  "  Britons 
never  shall  be  slaves,"  of  the  numbers  of  young  women  who, 
armed  with  feathers  and  the  sharpest  of  tongues,  showed 
conclusively  the  superiority  of  their  sex  and  personal  at- 
tractions, of  the  numbers  of  old  men  and  old  women  who 
had  no  right  whatever  to  be  out  on  a  night  like  this  but 
couldn't  help  themselves,  and  enjoyed  it  just  as  much  aa 
their  sons  and  daughters  did,  there  is  here  no  room  to  tell. 
The  houses  were  ablaze  with  light,  the  very  lamp-posts 
seemed  to  rock  up  and  down  with  delight  at  the  spirit  of 
the  whole  affair  and  the  Feast  of  the  Glorification  of  the 
Bomb  that  Didn't  Come  Ofi"  was  being  celebrated  with  all 
the  honours. 

Peter  was  very  soon  in  the  thick  of  it.  The  grey  silences 
of  Bennett  Square  and  Bloomsbury  were  left  behind  and 
with  them  the  emotions  of  those  tender  partings.  After 
all,  it  would  only  be  a  very  few  weeks  before  he  would  be 
back  again  among  them  all,  telling  them  of  his  success  on 
some  paper  and  going  back  perhaps  to  live  with  them  all 
when  his  income  was  assured. 

And,  anyhow,  here  he  was,  out  to  seek  his  fortune  and 
with  Stephen  to  help  him!  He  battled  with  the  crowd 
dragging  the  black  bag  with  him  and  shouting  sometimes 
in  sheer  excitement  and  good  spirits.  Young  women  tickled 
him  with  feathers,  once  some  one  linked  arms  with  him  and 
dragged  him  along,  always  he  was  surrounded  with  this  sea 
of  shouting,  exultant  humanity — ^this  was  life! 


230  FORTITUDE 

By  the  lion  Stephen  was  waiting  for  him,  standing  huge 
and  solemn  as  the  crowd  surged  past.  He  pressed  Peter's 
arm  to  show  that  he  was  pleased  to  see  him  and  then,  with- 
out speaking,  they  pushed  through,  past  Charing  Cross 
station,  and  down  the  hill  to  the  Underground. 

Here,  once  again,  there  was  startling  silence.  No  one 
seemed  to  be  using  the  trains  at  all. 

"  I'm  afraid  it  ain't  much  of  a  place  that  I'm  taking  yer 
to,"  Stephen  said.  "  We  can't  pick  and  choose  yer  know 
and  I  was  there  before  and  she's  a  good  woman." 

A  chill  seemed  to  come  with  them  into  the  carriage. 
Suddenly  to  Peter  the  comforts  of  Brockett's  stretched  out 
alluring  arms,  then  he  pulled  himself  together. 

"  I'm  sure  it  will  be  splendid,"  he  said,  "  and  it  will  be 
just  lovely  being  with  you  after  all  this  time." 

They  got  out  and  plunged  into  a  city  of  black  night. 
Around  them,  on  every  side  there  was  silence — even  the 
broad  central  thoroughfare  seemed  to  be  deserted  and  on 
either  side  of  it,  to  right  and  left,  black  grim  roads  like  open 
mouths,  lay  waiting  for  the  unwary  traveller. 

Down  one  of  these  they  plunged;  Peter  was  conscious 
of  faces  watching  them.  "  Bucket  Lane  "  was  the  street's 
title  to  fame.  Windows  showed  dim  candles,  in  the  distance 
a  sharp  cry  broke  the  silence  and  then  "fell  away  again. 
The  street  was  very  narrow  and  from  the  running  gutters 
there  stole  into  the  air  the  odour  of  stale  cabbage. 

"  This  is  the  'ouse."  Stephen  stopped.  Somewhere, 
above  their  heads,  a  child  was  crying. 


CHAPTER  VI 
THE  WORLD  AND  BUCKET  LANE 


ALIGHT  flashed  in  the  upper  windows,  stayed  for  a 
moment,  and  disappeared.  There  was  a  pause  and 
then  the  door  slowly  opened  and  a  woman's  head  protruded. 

She  stared  at  them  without  speaking. 

"  Mr.  Brant,"  Stephen  said.  "  I'm  come  back,  Mrs. 
Williams  'oping  you  might  'ave  that  same  room  me  and  my 
friend  might  use  if  it's  agreeable." 

She  stepped  forward  then  and  looked  at  them  more  care- 
fully. She  was  a  stout  red-faced  woman,  her  hair  hanging 
about  her  face,  her  dirty  bodice  drawn  tightly  over  her 
enormous  bosom  and  her  skirt  pulled  up  in  front  and  hang- 
ing, draggled  behind  her.  Her  long,  dirty  fingers  went 
up  to  her  face  continually;  she  had  a  way  of  pushing  at 
her  teeth  with  them. 

She  seemed  however  pleased  to  see  Stephen. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Brant,"  she  said,  "  come  in.  It's  a  surprise 
I  must  say  but  Lord!  as  I'm  always  telling  Mrs.  Griggs  oo's 
on  the  bottom  floor  when  she  can  afford  'er  rent  which 
'asn't  been  often  lately,  poor  thing,  owing  to  'aving  'er  tenth 
only  three  weeks  back,  quite  unexpected,  and  'er  man  being 
turned  off  'is  'ouse-painting  business  what  'e's  been  at  this 
ten  year  and  more — well  come  along  in,  I'm  sure — " 

They  mere  in  by  this  time  having  been  urged  by  their 
hostess  into  the  very  narrowest,  darkest  and  smelliest  pas- 
sage that  Peter  had  ever  encountered.  Somewhere  behind 
the  walls,  the  world  was  moving.  On  every  side  of  him 
above  and  below,  children  were  crying,  voices  swearing, 
murmuring,  complaining,  arguing;  Peter  could  feel  Mrs. 
Williams'  breath  hot  against  his  cheek.  Up  the  wheezy 
stairs  she  panted,  they  following  her.  Peter  had  never 
heard  such  loquacity.  It  poured  from  her  as  though  she 
meant  nothing  whatever  by  it  and  was  scarcely  aware  in- 
deed of  the  things  that  she  was  saying.     "  And  it's  a  long 


232  FORTITUDE 

time,  Mr.  Brant,  since  we  'ad  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you. 
My  last  'usband's  left  me  since  yer  was  'ere — indeed  *e  'av 
— all  along  of  a  fight  'e  'ad  with  old  Colly  Moles  down 
Three  Barrer  walk — penal  servitude,  poor  feller  and  all 
along  of  'is  nasty  temper  as  I  was  always  tellin'  'im.  Why 
the  very  morning  before  it  'appened  I  remember  sayin'  to 
'im  when  'e  up  and  threw  a  knife  at  me  for  contradictin' 
'is  words  I  remember  sayin'  to  'im  that  'is  temper  would  be 
the  settlin'  of  me  but  'e  wouldn't  listen,  not  'e.  Obstinate! 
Lord !  that  simply  isn't  the  word  for  it  .  .  .  but  'ere's  the 
room  and  nobody  been  in  it  since  Sairy  Grace  and  she  was 
always  bringin'  men  along  with  'er,  dirty  slut  and  that's  a 
month  since  she's  been  and  gone  and  I  always  like  'aving 
yer,  Mr.  Brant,  for  you're  quiet  enough  and  no  trouble  at 
all — and  your  friend  looks  pleasant  I  must  say." 

The  room  was,  indeed,  remarkably  respectable — not 
blessed  with  much  furniture  in  addition  to  two  beds  and 
two  chairs  but  roomy  and  with  a  large  and  moderately  clean 
window. 

"Now  what  about  terms  for  me  and  my  friend?"  said 
Stephen. 

Now  followed  friendly  argument  in  which  the  lady  and 
Stephen  seemed  perfectly  to  understand  one  another.  After 
asserting  that  under  no  circumstances  whatever  could  she 
possibly  take  less  than  at  least  double  the  price  that  Stephen 
offered  her  she  suddenly,  at  the  sound  of  a  child's  shrill  cry- 
ing from  below,  shrugged  her  shoulders  with:  "  There's 
young  'Lisbeth  Anne  again  .  .  .  well,  Mr.  Brant,  'ave  it 
your  own  way — I'm  contented  enough  I'm  sure,"  and  van- 
ished. 

But  the  little  discussion  had  brought  Peter  to  a  sharp 
realisation  of  the  immediate  business  of  ways  and  means. 
Sitting  on  one  of  the  beds  afterwards  with  Stephen  beside 
him  he  inquired — 

"  How  much  have  we  got,  Stephen?     I've  got  thirty  bob." 

"  Never  you  mind,  Peter.     We'll  soon  be  gcttin'  work." 

"  Why,  of  course.  I'll  force  'em  to  take  me.  That's  all 
you  want  in  these  things — to  look  fierce  and  say  you  won't 
go  until  they  give  you  something — a  trial  anyhow." 

And  sitting  there  on  the  bed  with  Stephen  beside  him  he 
felt  immensely  confident.     There  was  nothing  that  he  could 


THE  BOOKSHOP  a33 

not  do.  With  one  swift  movement  he  seemed  to  have  flung 
from  him  all  the  things  that  were  beginning  to  crowd  in 
between  him  and  his  work.  He  must  never,  never  allow 
that  to  happen  again — how  could  one  ever  be  expected  to 
work  if  one  were  always  thinking  of  other  people,  interested 
in  them  and  their  doings,  involved  with  anarchists  and  bombs 
and  romantic  adventures.  Why  here  he  was  with  nothing 
in  the  world  to  hold  him  or  to  interfere  and  no  one  except  I 
dear  old  Stephen  with  whom  he  must  talk.  Ambition  crept 
very  close  to  him  that  night — ambition  with  its  glittering, 
shining  rewards,  its  music  and  colours — close  to  him  as  he 
sat  in  that  bare,  naked  room. 

"I'd  rather  be  with  you  than  any  one  in  the  world — 
we'U  have  such  times,  you  and  I." 

Perhaps   Stephen  knew  more  about  the  world;   perhaps 
during  the  years  that  he  had  been  tumbled  and  knocked  \ 
■  about  he  had  realised  that  the  world  was  no  easy  nut  to     J 
crack  and  that  loaves  and  fishes  don't  come  to  the  hungry     / 
for  the  asking.     But  Peter  that  night  was  to  be  appalled  by 
nothing. 

They  sat  up  into  the  early  morning,  talking.  The  noises 
in  the  house  and  in  the  streets  about  them  rose  and  fell. 
Some  distant  cry  would  climb  into  the  silence  and  draw  from 
it  other  cries  set  like  notes  of  music  to  tumble  back  into  a 
common  scheme  together. 

"  Steve,  tell  me  about  Zanti.     Is  he  really  a  scoundrel  ?  " 

"  A  scoundrel  ?  No,  poor  feller.  Why,  Mr.  Peter,  you 
ought  to  know  better  than  that.  'E  ain't  got  a  spark  of 
malice  in  him  but  'e's  always  after  adventure.  'E  knows 
all  the  queer  people  in  Europe — and  more'n  Europe  too. 
There's  nothin'  'e  don't  put  'is  nose  into  in  a  clumsy,  childish 
way  but  always,  you  understand,  Mr.  Peter,  because  *e's 
after  'is  romantic  fancies.  It  was  when  'e  was  after  gold 
down  in  Cornwall — some  old  treasure  story — that  I  came 
across  'im  and  'e  was  kind  to  me.  .  .  .  'E  was  a  kind-'earted 
man,  Mr.  Zanti,  and  never  meant  'arm  to  a  soul.  And  *e's 
very  fond  of  you,  Mr.  Peter." 

"  Yes,  I  know."  Peter  was  vaguely  troubled.  "  I  hope 
I  haven't  been  unkind  about  him.  I  suppose  it  was  the 
shock  of  the  whole  thing.  But  it  was  time  I  went  anyway. 
But  tell  me,  Stephen,  what  you've  been  doing  all  these  years. 


234  FORTITUDE 

And  why  you  let  me  be  all  that  time  witfiout  seeing 
you — " 

"  Well,  Mr.  Peter,  I  didn't  think  it  would  be  good  for 
you — I  was  knowing  lots  o'  strange  people  time  and  again 
and  then  you  might  have  been  mixed  up  with  me.  I'm 
safe  enough  now,  I'm  thinking,  and  I'd  have  been  safe 
enough  all  the  time  the  way  Cornwall  was  then  and  every 
one  sympathising  with  me — " 

"  But  what  have  you  been  doing  all  the  time?  " 

"  I  was  in  America  a  bit  and  there  are  few  things  I 
haven't  worked  at  in  my  time — always  waiting  for  'er  to 
come — and  she  will  come  some  time — it's  only  patience 
that's  wanted." 

"  Have  you  ever  heard  from  her.^  " 

"  There  was  a  line  once — just  a  line — she's  all  right." 
His  great  body  seemed  to  glow  with  confidence. 

Peter  would  like  then  to  have  spoken  about  Clare  Rossi- 
ter.  But  no — some  shyness  held  him — one  day  he  would 
tell  Stephen. 

He  unpacked  his  few  possessions  carefully  and  then,  on 
a  very  hard  bed,  dreaming  of  bombs,  of  Mrs.  Brockett 
dressed  as  a  ballet  dancer,  of  Mr.  Zanti  digging  for  treasure 
beneath  the  grey  flags  of  Bennett  Square,  of  Clare  Eliza- 
beth Rossiter  riding  down  Oxford  Street  amidst  the  shouts 
of  the  populace,  of  the  world  as  a  coloured  globe  on  which 
he,  Peter  Westcott,  the  author  of  that  masterpiece,  "  Reuben 
Hallard,"  had  set  his  foot  ...  so,  triumphant,  be  slept. 


n 

On  the  next  morning  the  Attack  on  London  began.  The 
house  in  Bucket  Lane  was  dark  and  grim  when  he  left  it 
— the  street  was  hidden  from  the  light  and  hunjf  like  a  strip 
of  black  ribbon  between  the  sunshine  of  the  broader  high- 
ways that  lay  at  each  end  of  it.  It  was  a  Jewish  quarter 
— notices  in  Yiddish  were  in  all  the  little  grimy  shop  win- 
dows, in  the  bakers  and  the  sweetshops  and  the  laundries. 
But  it  was  not,  this  Bucket  Lane,  a  street  without  its  dignity 
and  its  own  personal  little  cleanliness.  It  had  its  attempts 
at  such  things.  His  own  room  and  Mrs.  Williams'  tea  and 
bread  and  butter  bad  been  clean. 


THE  BOOKSHOP  K35 

But  as  he  came  down  out  of  these  strange  murmuring 
places  with  their  sense  of  hiding  from  the  world  at  large 
the  things  that  they  were  occupied  in  doing,  Bucket  Lane 
stuck  in  his  head  as  a  dark  little  quarry  into  which  he  must 
at  the  day's  end^  whatever  gorgeous  places  he  had  meanwhile 
encountered,  creep.  "  Creeping  "  was  the  only  way  to  get 
into  such  a  place. 

Meanwhile  he  had  put  on  his  best,  had  blackened  his 
shoes  until  they  shone  like  little  mirrors,  had  brushed  his 
bowler  hat  again  and  again  and  looked  finally  like  a  sailor 
on  shore  for  a  holiday.  Seven  years  in  Charing  Cross  Road 
had  not  taken  the  brown  from  his  cheeks,  nor  bent  his  broad 
shoulders. 

At  the  Mansion  House  he  climbed  on  to  the  top  of  a 
lumbering  omnibus  and  sailed  down  through  the  City.  It 
was  now  that  he  discovered  how  seldom  during  his  seven 
years  he  had  ventured  beyond  his  little  square  of  country. 
Below  him,  on  either  side  of  him,  black  swarms  stirred  and 
moved,  now  forming  ahead  of  him  patterns,  squares,  circles, 
then  suddenly  rising  it  appeared  like  insects  and  in  a  cloud 
surging  against  the  high  stone  buildings.  All  men — men 
moving  with  eyes  straight  ahead  of  them,  bent  furiously 
upon  some  business,  but  assembling,  retreating,  advancing, 
it  seemed,  by  the  order  of  some  giant  hand  that  in  the  air 
above  them  played  a  game.  Imagine  that,  in  some  moment 
of  boredom,  the  Hand  were  to  brush  the  little  pieces  aside, 
were  to  close  the  board  and  put  it  away,  then,  with  what 
ignominy  and  feeble  helplessness  would  these  little  black 
figures  topple  clumsily  into  heaps. 

Down  through  the  midst  of  them  the  omnibus,  like  a  man 
with  an  impediment  in  his  speech,  surrounded  by  the  chatter 
of  cabs  and  carts  and  bicycles,  stammered  its  way.  The 
streets  opened  and  shut,  shouts  came  up  to  them  and  fell 
away.  Peter's  heart  danced — London  was  here  at  last  and 
the  silence  of  Bennett  Square,  the  dark  omens  of  Bucket 
Lane  and  the  clamour  of  the  city  had  together  been  the  key 
for  the  unlocking  of  its  gates. 

Ludgate  Hill  caught  them  into  its  heart,  held  them  for 
an  instant,  and  then  flung  them  down  in  the  confusion  of 
Fleet  Street. 

Here  it  was  at  last  then  with  its  typewriters  and  its  tele- 


<^6  FORTITUDE 

phones  and  its  printing  machines  hurling  with  a  whir  and 
clatter  the  news  of  the  world  into  the  air,  and  above  it 
brooding,  like  an  immense  brain — the  God  of  its  restless 
activity — the  Dome  of  St.  Paul's. 

Peter  climbed  down  from  his  omnibus  because  he  saw  on 
his  right  a  Public  Reading  Room.  Here  in  tattered  and 
anxious  company,  he  studied  the  papers  and  took  down  ad- 
dresses in  a  note  book.  He  was  frightened  for  an  instant 
by  the  feet  that  shuffled  up  and  down  the  floor  from  paper 
to  paper.  There  was  something  most  hopeless  in  the  sound 
of  that  shuffle. 

"  'Ave  yer  a  cigarette  on  yer.  Mister,  that  yer  wouldn't 
mind—" 

He  turned  round  and  at  once,  like  blows,  two  fierce  gaunt 
eyes  struck  him  in  the  face.  Two  eyes  staring  from  some 
dirty  brown  pieces  of  cloth  on  end,  it  seemed,  by  reason  of 
their  own  pathetic  striving  for  notice,  rather  than  because 
of  any  life  inside  them. 

Peter  murmured  something  and  hurried  away.  Suppos- 
ing that  editors  .  .  .  but  no,  this  was  not  the  proper  be- 
ginning of  a  successful  day.  But  the  place,  down  steps 
nnder  the  earth,  with  its  miserable  shadows  was  not  pleasant 
to  remember. 

His  first  visit  was  to  the  office  of  The  Morning  JVorld. 
He  remembered  his  remark  to  Stephen  about  self-assertion, 
but  his  heart  sank  as  he  entered  the  large  high  room  with 
its  railed  counter  running  round  the  centre  of  it — a  barrier 
cold,  impassable.  Already  several  people  were  sitting  on 
chairs  that  were  ranged  along  the  wall. 

Peter  went  up  boldly  to  the  counter  and  a  very  thin  young 
man  with  a  stone  hatchet  instead  of  a  face  and  his  hair  very 
wonderfully  parted  in  the  middle — so  accurately  parted  that 
Peter  could  think  of  nothing  else — watched  him  coldly  over 
the  barrier. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you?  "  he  said. 
"  I  want  to  see  the  Editor." 
*'  Have  you  an  appointment  ?  " 
••  No." 

"Oh,  I'm  afraid  that  it  would  be  impossible  without  an 
appointment" 

"  It  there  bjoj  one  whom  I  could  see  ?  " 


THE  BOOKSHOP  g37 

"  If  you  could  tell  me  your  business,  perhaps — " 

Peter  began  to  be  infuriated  with  this  young  man  with 
the  hatchet  face. 

"  I  want  to  know  if  there's  any  place  for  me  on  this 
paper.     If  I  can — " 

"  Oh ! "  The  voice  was  very  cold  indeed  and  the  iron 
barrier  seemed  to  multiply  itself  over  and  over  again  all 
round  the  room. 

"  I'm  afraid  in  that  case  you  had  better  write  to  the 
Editor  and  make  an  appointment.  No,  I'm  afraid  there  is 
no  one  .  .  ." 

Peter  melted  away.  The  faces  on  the  chairs  were  all 
very  glad.  The  stone  building  echoed  with  some  voice  that 
called  some  one  a  long  way  away.  Peter  was  in  the  street. 
He  stood  outside  the  great  offices  of  The  Morning  World 
and  looked  across  the  valley  at  the  great  dome  that  squatted 
above  the  moving  threads  of  living  figures.  He  was  ab- 
surdly upset  by  this  unfortunate  interview.  What  could  he 
have  expected.''  Of  what  use  was  it  that  he  should  fling 
his  insignificance  against  that  kind  of  wall.''  Moreover  he 
must  try  many  times  before  his  chance  would  be  given  him. 
It  was  absurd  that  he  should  mind  that  rebuff.  But  the 
hatchet-faced  young  man  pursued  him.  He  seemed  to  see 
now  as  he  looked  up  and  down  the  street,  a  hostility  in  the 
faces  of  those  that  passed  him.  Moreover  he  saw,  here  and 
there  figures,  wretched  figures,  moving  in  and  out  of  the 
crowd,  bending  into  the  gutter  for  something  that  had  been 
dropped — lean,  haggard  faces,  burning  eyes  ...  he  began 
to  see  them  as  a  chain  that  woimd,  up  and  down,  amongst 
the  people  and  the  carriages  along  the  street. 

He  pulled  himself  together — If  he  was  feeling  these 
things  at  the  very  beginning  of  his  battle  why  then  defeat 
was  certain.  He  was  ashamed  and,  looking  at  his  paper, 
chose  the  offices  of  The  Mascot,  a  very  popular  society 
journal  that  brightened  the  world  with  its  cheerful  good- 
tempered  smile,  every  Friday  morning.  Here  the  room  in 
which  he  found  himself  was  small  and  cosy,  it  had  a  bright 
pink  wall-paper,  and  behind  a  little  shining  table  a  shining 
young  woman  beamed  upon  him.  The  shining  yoimg  woman 
was,  however,  very  busy  at  her  typewriter  and  Peter  was 
examined  by  a  tiny  office  boy  who  seemed  to  be  made  entirely 


238  FORTITUDE 

of  shining  brass  buttons  and  shining  little  boots  and  shining 
hair. 

"  And  what  can  I  do  for  you,  sir?  "  he  said. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  the  Editor,"  Peter  explained. 

"  Your  name  ?  "  said  the  Shining  One. 

Peter  had  no  cards.  He  blamed  himself  for  the  omission 
and  stammered  in  his  reply. 

The  Boy  gave  the  lady  at  the  typewriter  a  very  knowing 
look  and  disappeared.  He  swiftly  returned  and  said  that 
Mr.  Boset  could  see  Mr.  Westcott  for  a  few  minutes,  but 
for  a  few  minutes  only. 

Mr.  Boset  sat  resplendent  in  a  room  that  was  coloured 
a  bright  green.  He  was  himself  stout  and  red-faced  and  of 
a  surpassing  smartness,  his  light  blue  suit  was  very  tight 
at  the  waist  and  very  broad  over  the  hips,  his  white  spats 
gleamed,  his  pearl  pin  stared  like  an  eye  across  the  room, 
his  neck  bulged  in  red  folds  over  his  collar.  Mr,  Boset 
was  eating  chocolates  out  of  a  little  cardboard  box  and  his 
attention  was  continually  held  by  the  telephone  that  sum- 
moned him  to  its  side  at  frequent  intervals.  He  was  how- 
ever exceedingly  pleasant.  He  begged  Peter  to  take  a 
chair. 

"Just  a  minute,  Mr.  Westcott,  will  you?  Yes — hullo 
—yes— This  is  6140  Strand.  Hullo!  Hullo!  Oh— is 
that  you,  Mrs.  Wyman?  Good  morning — yes,  splendid, 
thank  you — never  fitter — Very  busy  yes,  of  course — what — 
Lunch  Thursday?  .  .  .  Oh,  but  delighted.  Just  let  me  look 
at  my  book  a  moment?  Yes — quite  free — Who?  The 
Frasers  and  Pigots?     Oh!  dehghtful!  1.30,  delightful!" 

Mr,  Boset,  settled  once  more  in  his  chair  was  as  charming 
as  possible.  You  would  suppose  that  the  whole  day  was 
at  Peter's  service.  He  wanted  to  know  a  great  many  things. 
Peter's  hopes  ran  high. 

"Well — what  have  you  got  to  show?  What  have  you 
written  ?  " 

Peter  had  written  a  novel. 

"Published?" 

"  No." 

"Well  ...  got  anything  else?" 

"No — not  just  at  present" 

"  Oh  well — muBt  have  something  to  show  you  know — " 


THE  BOOKSHOP  239^ 

"Yes."     Peter's  hopes  were  in  his  boots. 

"  Yes — must  have  something  to  show — "  Mr.  Boset's 
eyes  were  peering  into  the  cardboard  box  on  a  voyage  of 
selection. 

"  Yes — well — when  you've  written  something  send  it 
along — " 

"  I  suppose  there  isn't  anything  I  can  do — " 

"  Well,  our  staff,  you  know,  is  filled  up  to  the  eyes  as 
it  is — fellows  waiting — lots  of  'em — yes,  you  show  us  what 
you  can  do.  Write  an  article  or  two.  Buy  The  Mascot  and 
see  the  kind  of  thing  we  like.  Yes — Excuse  me,  the  tele- 
phone—Yes—Yes 6140  Strand.  .  .  ," 

Peter  found  himself  once  more  in  the  outer  room  and  then 
ushered  forth  by  the  Shining  Boy  he  was  in  the  street. 

He  was  hungry  now  and  sought  an  A. B.C.  shop  and  there 
over  the  cold  marble-topped  tables  consulted  his  list.  The 
next  attempt  should  be  The  Saturday  Illustrated,  one  of  the 
leading  illustrated  weeklies,  and  perhaps  there  he  would  be 
more  successful.  As  he  sat  in  the  A.B.C.  shop  and  watched 
the  squares  of  street  opposite  the  window  he  felt  suddenly 
that  no  ejBTort  of  his  would  enable  him  to  struggle  success- 
fully against  those  indifferent  crowds. 

Above  the  houses  in  the  patch  of  blue  sky  that  filled  the 
window-pane  soft  bundles  of  cloud  streamed  like  flags  be- 
fore the  wind.  Into  these  soft  grey  meshes  the  sun  was 
swept  and  with  a  cold  shudder  Fleet  Street  fell  into  shadow ; 
beyond  it  and  above  it  the  great  dome  burned;  a  company 
of  sandwich  men,  advertising  on  their  stooping  bodies  the 
latest  musical  comedy,  crept  along  the  gutter. 


ni 

At  the  offices  of  The  Saturday  Illustrated  they  told  him 
that  if  he  returned  at  four  o'clock  he  would  be  able  to  see 
the  Editor.  He  walked  about  and  at  last  sat  down  on  the 
Embankment  and  watched  the  barges  slide  down  the  river. 
The  water  was  feathery  and  sometimes  streamed  into  lines 
like  spun  silk  reflecting  many  colours,  and  above  the  water 
the  clouds  turned  and  wheeled  and  changed  against  the 
limpid  blue.     The  little  slap  that  the  motion  of  the  river 


240  FORTITUDE 

gave  to  the  stone  embankment  reminded  him  of  the  wooden 
jetty  at  Treliss — the  place  was  strangely  sweet — the  roar 
of  the  Strand  was  far  away  and  muflSed. 

As  he  sat  there  listening  there  seemed  to  come  up  to  him, 
straight  out  of  the  river,  strange  impersonal  noises  that  had 
to  do  with  no  definite  sounds.  He  was  reminded  of  a  story 
that  he  had  once  read,  a  story  concerning  a  nice  young  man 
who  caught  the  disease  known  as  the  Horror  of  London. 
Peter  thought  that  in  the  air,  coming  from  nowhere,  intangi- 
ble, floating  between  the  river  and  the  sky  something 
stirred  .  .  . 

Big  Ben  struck  quarter  to  four  and  he  turned  once  more 
into  the  Strand. 

The  editor  of  The  Saturday  Illustrated  was  a  very  differ- 
ent person  from  Mr.  Boset.  At  a  desk  piled  with  papers, 
stern,  gaunt  and  sharp-chinned,  his  words  rattled  out  of  his 
mouth  like  peas  onto  a  plate.  But  Peter  saw  that  he  had 
humorous  twinkling  eyes. 

"  Well,  what  can  you  do  ?  " 

"  I've  never  tried  anything — but  I  feel  that  I  should 
learn — " 

.      "  Learn !     Do  you  suppose  this  office  is  a  nursery  shop 
/  for  teaching  sucklings  how  to  draw  their  milk.^     Are  you 
^^^^ ready  for  anything.^" 

"  Anything — " 

"  Yes — they  all  say  that.  Journalism  isn't  any  fun,  you 
know." 

"  I'm  not  looking  for  fun." 

"  Well,  it's  the  damnedest  trade  out.  Anything's  better. 
But  you  want  to  write  .^  " 

"  I  must" 

"  Yes — exactly.  Well,  I  like  the  look  of  you.  More 
blood  and  bones  than  most  of  the  rotten  puppies  that  come 
into  this  office.  I've  no  job  for  you  at  the  moment  though. 
Go  back  to  your  digs  and  write  something — anything  you 
like — and  send  it  along — leave  me  your  address.  Oh,  hoi 
Bucket  Lane — hard  up  ?  " 

"  I'm  all  right,  thank  you." 

**  All  right,  I  wasn't  offering  you  charity — no  need  to 
put  your  pride  up.  I  shan't  forget  you  .  .  .  but  send  me 
something." 


THE  BOOKSHOP  841 

The  clouds  had  now  enveloped  the  sun.  As  Peter,  a 
little  encouraged  by  this  last  experience  but  tired  with  a 
dull,  listless  fatigue,  crept  into  the  dark  channels  of  Bucket 
Lane^  the  rain  began  to  fall  with  heavy  solemn  drops. 


CHAPTER  VII 
DE\^L'S  MARCH 


THERE  could  be  nothing  odder  than  the  picture  that 
Brockett's  and  Bennett  Square  presented  from  the 
vantage  ground  of  Bucket  Lane.  How  peaceful  and  happy 
those  evenings  (once  considered  a  little  dreary  perhaps  and 
monotonous)  now  seemed !  Those  mornings  in  the  dusty 
bookshop,  Mr.  Zanti,  Herr  Gottfried,  Mrs.  Brockett,  then 
Brockett's  with  its  strange  kind-hearted  company — the  din- 
ing-room, the  marble  pillars,  the  green  curtains — Norah 
Monogue ! 

Not  only  did  it  seem  another  lifetime  when  he  had  been  i 
there  but  also  inevitably,  one  was  threatened  with  never 
getting  back.  Bucket  Lane  was  another  world — from  its  | 
grimy  windows  one  looked  upon  every  tragedy  that  life  ' 
had  to  offer.  Into  its  back  courts  were  born  muddled  in-  ' 
decent  little  lives,  there  blindly  to  wallow  until  the  earth  j 
called  them  back  to  itself  again. 

But  it  was  in  the  attitude  of  Bucket  Lane  to  the  Great 
Inevitable  that  the  essential  difference  was  to  be  observed. 
In  Bennett  Square  things  had  been  expected  and,  for  the 
most  part,  obtained.  Catastrophes  came  lumbering  into 
their  midst  at  times  but  rising  in  the  morning  one  might 
decently  expect  to  go  to  rest  at  night  in  safety.  In  Bucket 
Lane  there  was  no  safety  but  defiance — fierce,  bitterly 
humorous,  truculent  defiance.  Bucket  Lane  was  a  be- 
leaguered army  that  stood  behind  the  grime  and  dirty  walls 
on  guard.  From  the  earliest  moment  there  the  faces  of  all 
the  babies  born  into  Bucket  Lane  caught  the  strain  of  cau- 
tious resistance  that  was  always  to  remain  with  them. 
Life  in  Bucket  Lane,  for  every  one  from  the  youngest  infant 
to  the  oldest  idiot,  was  War.  War  against  Order  and  Civi- 
lised Force.  War  also  against  that  great  unseen  Hand 
that  might  at  any  moment  swoop  down  upon  any  one  of  them 
and  bestow  fire,  death  and  imprisonment  upon  its  victims. 

To  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  from  the  Mission  the  citizens 

MS 


THE  BOOKSHOP  243 

1  of  Bucket  Lane  presented  an  amused  and  cynical  tolerance. 
!  If  those  poor,  meek,  frightened  creatures  chose  some  faint- 
'  hearted  attempts  at  flattery  and  submission  before  this 
I  abominable  Deity — well,  they  did  no  harm.  \ 

^     Mrs.  Williams   said  to   Miss   Connacher,  a  bright-faced 
young  woman  from  St.  Matthew's  Mission — "  And  I'm  sure      \ 
we're   always   delighted  to   see  you.   Miss.     But  you  can't       ] 
'ave  us  goin'  and  being  grateful  on  our  bended  knees  to  the       ' 
sort  of  person  as  according  to  your  account  of  it  gave  me      f 
my  first   'usband   'oo  was   a  blackguard   if  ever  there   was     f 
one,  and  my  last  child  wot  'ad  rickets  and  so  'andsomely     i 
arranged  me  to  go  breakin'  my  leg  one  night  coming  back     , 
from  a  party  and  sliding  on  the  stairs,  and  in  losin'  my  little    / 
bit  o'  charin'  and  as  near  the  workus  as  ever  yer  see — ^no — 
it  ain't  common  sense." 

To  which  Miss  Connacher  vaguely  looking  around  for  a 
list  of  Mrs.  Williams'  blessings  and  finding  none  to  speak 
of,  had  no  reply. 

But  the  astonishing  thing  was  that  Peter  seemed  at  once 
to  be  seized  with  the  Bucket  Lane  position.  He  was  now, 
he  understood,  in  a  world  of  earthquake — wise  citizens  lived 
from  minute  to  minute  and  counted  on  no  longer  safety.  He 
began  also  to  eliminate  everything  that  was  not  absolutely 
essential.  At  Brockett's  he  had  never  consciously  done 
without  anything  that  he  wanted — in  Bucket  Lane  he  dis- 
carded to  the  last  possible  shred  of  possession. 

He  had  returned  from  his  first  day's  hunting  with  the  re- 
solve that  before  he  ventured  out  again  he  would  have  some- 
thing to  show.  With  a  precious  sixpence  he  bought  a  copy 
of  The  Mascot  and  studied  it — there  was  a  short  story  en- 
titled "  Mrs.  Adair's  Co." — and  an  article  on  "  What  Society 
Drinks  " — the  remaining  pages  of  the  number  were  filled 
with  pictures  and  "  Chatter  from  Day  to  Day."  This  gaily- 
coloured  production  lying  on  one  of  the  beds  in  the  dark 
room  in  Bucket  Lane  seemed  singularly  out  of  place.  Its 
pages  fluttered  in  the  breeze  that  came  through  the  window 
cracks — "  Maison  Tep  "  it  cried  feebly  to  the  screaming 
children  in  the  court  below,  "is  a  very  favourite  place  for 
supper  just  now,  with  Maitre  Savori  as  its  popular  chef  and 
its  admirably  stocked  cellars.  .   .   ." 

Peter  gave  himself  a  fortnight  in  which  to  produce  some- 


«44  FORTITUDE 

thing  that  he  could  "  show."  Stephen  meanwhile  had  found 
work  as  a  waiter  in  one  of  the  small  Soho  restaurants ;  it  was 
only  a  temporary  engagement  but  he  hoped  to  get  something 
better  within  a  week  or  two. 

For  the  moment  all  was  well.  At  the  end  of  his  fortnight, 
with  four  things  written  Peter  meant  to  advance  once  more 
to  the  attack.  Meanwhile  he  sat  with  a  pen,  a  penny  bottle 
of  ink  and  an  exercise  book  and  did  what  he  could.  At  the 
end  of  the  fortnight  he  had  written  "  The  Sea  Road,"  an 
essay  for  which  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  was  largely  respon- 
sible, "  The  Redgate  Mill,"  a  story  of  the  fantastic,  terrible 
kind,  "  Stones  for  Bread,"  moralising  on  Bucket  Lane,  and 
the  "  Red-Haired  Boy,"  a  somewhat  bitter  reminiscence  of 
Dawson's.  Of  this  the  best  was  undoubtedly  "  The  Sea 
Road,"  but  in  his  heart  of  hearts  Peter  knew  that  there  was 
something  the  matter  with  all  of  them.  "  Reuben  Hallard  " 
he  had  written  because  he  had  to  write  it,  these  four  things 
he  had  written  because  he  ought  to  write  them  .  .  .  diflference 
sufficient.  Nevertheless,  he  put  them  into  halfpenny  wrap- 
pers and  sent  them  away. 

In  the  struggle  to  produce  these  things  he  had  not  found 
that  fortnight  wearisome.  Before  him,  every  day,  there 
was  the  evening  when  Stephen  would  return,  to  which  he 
might  look  forward.  Stephen  was  always  very  late — often 
it  was  two  o'clock  before  he  came  in,  but  they  had  a  talk 
before  going  to  sleep.  And  here  in  these  evenings  Stephen 
developed  in  the  most  wonderful  way,  developed  because 
Peter  had  really  never  known  him  before. 

Stephen  had  never  appeared  to  Peter  as  a  character  at 
all.  In  the  early  days  Peter  had  been  too  young.  Stephen 
had,  at  that  time,  been  simply  something  to  be  worshipped, 
without  any  question  or  statement.  Now  that  worshipping 
had  gone  and  the  space  that  it  left  had  to  be  filled  by 
some  new  relationship,  something  that  could  only  come 
slowly,  out  of  the  close  juxtaposition  that  living  together 
in  Bucket  Lane  had  provided. 

And  it  was  Stephen  who  found,  unconsciously  and  quite 
simply,  the  shape  and  colour  of  Peter's  idea  of  him. 
Peter  had  in  reality,  nothing  at  all  to  do  with  it,  and  had 
Stephen  been  a  whit  more  self-conscious  the  effect  would 
have  been  spoiled. 


THE  BOOKSHOP  ^46 

In  the  first  place  Peter  came  quite  freshly  to  the  way  that 
Stephen  looked.  Stephen  expressed  nothing,  consciously, 
with  his  body;  it  was  wonderful  indeed  considering  its  size 
and  strength,  the  little  that  he  managed  to  do  with  it.  His 
eyes  were  mild  and  amiable,  his  face  largely  covered  with  a 
deep  brown  beard,  once  wildly  flowing,  now  sharply  pointed. 
He  was  at  least  six  foot  four  in  height,  the  breadth  of 
shoulder  was  tremendous,  but  although  he  knew  admirably 
what  to  do  with  it  as  a  means  of  conveyance,  of  sheer  phys- 
ical habit,  he  had  no  conception  of  the  possiiblities  that  it 
held  as  the  expression  of  his  soul.  That  soul  was  to  be  found, 
by  those  who  cared  to  look  for  it,  glancing  from  his  eyes,, 
struggling  sometimes  through  the  swift  friendliness  of  his  \ 
smile — but  he  gave  it  no  invitation.  It  all  came,  perhaps, 
from  the  fact  that  he  treated  himself — if  anything  so  uncon- 
scious may  be  called  treatment — as  the  very  simplest  creature 
alive.  The  word  introspection  meant  nothing  to  him  what- 
ever, there  were  in  life  certain  direct  sharp  motives  and  on 
these  he  acted.  He  never  thought  of  himself  or  of  any 
one  else  in  terms  of  complexity;  the  body  acted  simply 
through  certain  clear  and  direct  physical  laws  ...  so  the 
spirit.  He  loved  the  woman  who  had  dominated  his  whole 
life  and  one  day  he  would  find  her  and  marry  her.  He 
loved  Peter  as  he  would  love  a  son  of  his  own  if  he  possessed 
one,  and  he  would  be  at  Peter's  side  so  long  as  Peter  needed 
him,  and  would  rather  be  there  than  anywhere  else.  For 
the  rest  life  was  a  matter  of  birth  and  death,  of  loving  one 
man  and  hating  another,  of  food  and  drink,  and — but  this 
last  uncertainly — of  some  strange  thrill  that  was  stirred  in 
him,  at  times,  by  certain  sights  and  sounds. 

He  was  glad  to  have  been  born  ...  he  would  be  quite 
ready  to  die.  He  did  not  question  the  reason  of  the  one 
state  or  the  other.  For  the  very  fact  that  life  was  so 
simple  and  unentangled  he  clung,  with  the  tenacity  and 
dumb  force  of  an  animal  to  the  things  that  he  had.  Peter 
felt,  vaguely,  from  time  to  time,  the  strength  with  which 
Stephen  held  to  him.  It  was  never  expressed  in  word  nor 
in  action  but  it  came  leaping  sometimes,  like  fire,  into  the 
midst  of  their  conversation — it  was  never  tangible — always 
illusive. 

To  Peter's  progress  this  simplicity  of  Stephen  was  of 


246  FORTITUDE 

vast  importance.  The  boy  had  now  reached  an  age  and  a 
period  where  emotions,  judgments,  partialities,  conclusions 
and  surmises  were  fighting  furiously  for  dominion.  His 
seven  years  at  Brockett's  had  been,  introspectively,  of  little 
moment.  He  had  been  too  busy  discovering  the  things  that 
other  people  had  discovered  and  written  down  to  think  very 
much  about  himself. 

Now  released  from  the  domination  of  books,  he  plunged 
into  a  wliirlpool  of  surmise  about  himself.  During  the  fort- 
night that  he  sat  writing  his  articles  in  Bucket  Lane  he  flew, 
he  sank,  according  to  his  moods.  It  seemed  to  him  that  as 
soon  as  he  had  decided  on  one  path  and  set  out  eagerly  to 
follow  it  others  crossed  it  and  bewildered  him. 

He  was  now  on  that  unwholesome,  absorbing,  thrilling, 
dangerous  path  of  self -discovery.  Opposed  to  this  was  the 
inarticulate,  friendly  soul  of  Stephen.  Stephen  understood 
nothing  and  at  the  same  time  understood  everything. 
Against  the  testing  of  his  few  simple  laws  Peter's  complex- 
ities often  vanished  .  .  .  but  vanished  only  to  recur  again, 
unsatisfied,  demanding  a  subtler  answer.  It  was  during 
those  days,  through  all  the  trouble  and  even  horror  that  so 
shortly  came  upon  them  both,  that  Stephen  realised  with  a 
dull,  unreasoned  pain,  like  lead  at  the  heart,  that  Peter  was 
passing  inevitably  from  him  into  a  country  whither  Stephen 
could  not  follow — to  deal  with  issues  that  Stephen  could  not, 
in  any  kind  of  way,  understand.  Stephen  realised  this  many 
days  before  Peter  even  dimly  perceived  it,  and  the  older  man 
by  the  love  that  he  had  for  the  boy  whom  he  had  known  from 
the  \'ery  first  period  of  his  growth  was  enabled,  although 
dimly,  to  see  beyond,  above  all  these  complexities,  to  a  day 
when  Peter  would  once  more,  having  learnt  and  suffered 
much  in  the  meanwhile,  come  back  to  that  first  simplicity. 

But  that  day  was  far  distant. 


On  the  evening  of  the  day  on  which  Peter  finished  the 
last  of  his  five  attempts  to  take  the  London  journals  by 
storm  Stephen  returned  from  his  restaurant  carHer  than 
usual — so  early  indeed,  that  Peter,  had  he  not  been  so  bent 
on  his  own  immediate  affairs,  must  have  noticed  and  ques- 


THE  BOOKSHOP  247 

tioned  it.  He  might,  too,  have  observed  that  Stephen,  now 
and  again,  shot  an  anxious,  troubled  glance  at  him  ao 
though  he  were  uneasy  about  something. 

But  Peter,  since  six  o'clock  that  evening,  at  which  mo- 
ment he  had  written  the  concluding  sentence  of  "  The  Sea 
Road,"  had  been  in  deep  and  troubled  thought  concerning 
himself,  and  broke  from  that  introspection,  on  Stephen's  ar- 
rival, in  a  state  of  unhappy  morbidity  and  entire  self-absorp- 
tion. 

Their  supper  was  beer,  sardines  and  cheese. 

"  It's  been  pretty  awful  here  this  evening,"  Peter  said. 
"  Old  Trubbit  on  the  floor  below's  been  beating  his  wife 
and  she's  been  screaming  like  anything.  I  couldn't  stand  it, 
after  a  bit,  and  went  down  to  see  what  I  could  do.  The 
family  was  mopping  her  head  with  water  and  he  was  sitting 
on  a  chair,  crying.  Drunk  again,  of  course,  but  he  was 
turned  off  his  job  apparently  this  afternoon.  They're 
closing  down." 

"  'Ard  luck,"  said  Stephen,  looking  at  the  floor. 

"  Yes — it  hasn't  been  altogether  cheerful — and  his  get- 
ting the  chuck  like  that  set  me  thinking.  It's  awfully  lucky 
you've  got  your  job  all  right  and  of  course  now  I've  written 
these  things  and  have  got  '  something  to  show,'  I'll  be  all 
right."  Peter  paused  for  a  moment  a  little  uncertainly. 
"  But  it  does,  you  know,  make  one  a  bit  frightened,  this 
place,  seeing  the  way  people  get  suddenly  bowled  over. 
There  were  the  Gambits — a  fortnight  ago  he  was  in  work 
and  they  were  as  fit  as  anything  .  .  .  they  haven't  had  any 
food  now  for  three  days." 

"  There  ain't  anything  to  be  frightened  about,"  Stephen 
said  slowly. 

"  No,  I  know.  But  Stephen,  suppose  I  don't  get  work, 
after  all.  I've  been  so  confident  all  this  time,  but  I  mightn't 
be  able  to  do  the  job  a  bit.  ...  I  suppose  this  place  is 
getting  on  my  nerves  but — I  could  get  awfully  frightened 
if  I  let  myself." 

"  Oh,  you'll  be  all  right.  Of  course  you'll  be  getting 
something — " 

"  Yes,  but  I  hate  spending  your  money  like  this.  Do  you 
know,  Stephen,  I'd  almost  rather  you  were  out  of  work  too. 
That  sounds  a  rotten  thing  to  say  but  I  hate  being  given  it 


«48  FORTITUDE 

all  like  this,  especially  when  you  haven't  got  much  of  your 
own  either — " 

"  Between    friends,"   said    Stephen    slowly,   swinging   his 
leg  backwards  and  forwards  and  making  the  bed  creak  un- 
der his  weight,  "  there  aren't  any  giving  or  taking — it's  just   ) 
common." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  know,"  said  Peter  hurriedly,  frightened  lest 
he  should  have  hurt  his  feelings,  "  of  course  it's  all  right 
between  you  and  me.  But  all  the  same  I'm  rather  eager 
to  be  earning  part  of  it." 

They  were  silent  for  a  time.  Bucket  Lane  too  seemed 
silent  and  through  their  little  window,  between  the  black 
roofs  and  chimneys,  a  cluster  of  stars  twinkled  as  though 
they  had  found  their  way,  by  accident,  into  a  very  dirty 
neighbourhood  and  were  trying  to  get  out  of  it  again. 

Peter  was  busy  fishing  for  his  thoughts;  at  last  he  caught 
one  and  held  it  out  to  Stephen's  innocent  gaze. 

"  It  isn't,"  he  said,  "  like  anything  so  much  as  catching 
a  disease  from  an  infectious  neighbourhood.  I  think  if  I 
lived  here  with  five  thousand  a  year  I  should  still  be  fright- 
ened.    It's  in  the  air." 

"  Being  frightened,"  said  Stephen  rather  hurriedly  and 
speaking  with  a  kind  of  shame,  as  though  he  had  done 
something  .to  which  he  would  rather  not  own  up,  "  is  a  kind 
of  'abit.  Very  soon,  Peter,  you'll  know  what  it's  like  and 
take  it  as  it  comes." 

"  Oh,"  said  Peter,  "  if  it's  that  kind  of  being  frightened 
— seeing  I  mean  quite  clearly  the  things  you're  frightened 
of — why,  that's  pretty  easy.     One  of  the  first  books  I  ever 
read — '  Henry    Lessingham,'   by    Galleon,   you    know,    I've 
talked  about  him  to  you — had  a  long  bit  about  it — courage  I  1 
mean.     He  made  it  a  kind  of  parable,  countries  you'd  got  to  i 
go  through  before  you'd  learnt  to  be  really  brave;  and  the  I 
first,  and  by  far  the  easiest  courage  is  the  sort  that  you  want  \ 
when  you  haven't  got  things — the  sort  the  Gambits  want — 
when  you're  8tar\ing  or  out  of  a  job.     Well,  that's  I  suppose 
the  easiest  kind  and  yet  I'm  funking  it.     So  what  on  earth 
am  I  going  to  do  when  the  harder  business  comes  along? 
.  .  .  Stephen,  I'm  beginning  to  have  a  secret  and  uncom- 
fortable suspicion  that  your  friend,  Peter  Westcott,  is  a  poor 
creature." 


THE  BOOKSHOP  1249^ 

"  Thank  the  Lord,"  said  Stephen  furiously  and  kicking 
out  with  his  leg  as  though  he  had  got  some  especial  enemy's 
back  directly  in  front  of  him,  "  that  you've  finished  them 
damned  articles.  You've  been  sittin'  here  thinkin'  and 
writin'  till  you've  given  ycrself  blue  devils — down-along, 
too,  with  all  them  poor  creatures  hittin'  each  other  and 
drinkin' — I  oughtn't  to  have  left  yer  up  here  so  much 
alone — " 

"  No — you  couldn't  help  it,  Stephen — it's  nothing  to  do 
with  you.  It's  all  more  than  you  can  manage  and  nobody 
in  the  world  can  help  me.  It's  seven  years  and  a  bit  now 
since  I  left  Cornwall,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Stephen,  looking  across  at  him. 

"  All  that  time  I've  never  had  a  word  nor  a  sign  from 
any  one  there.  Well,  you  might  have  thought  that  that 
would  be  long  enough  to  break  right  away  from  it.  .  .  . 
Well,  it  isn't—" 

"  Don't  you  go  thinking  about  all  that  time.  You've 
cleared  it  right  away — " 

"  No,  I  haven't  cleared  it — that's  just  the  point.  I  don't 
suppose  one  ever  clears  anything.  All  the  time  I  was  with 
Zanti  I  was  reading  so  hard  and  living  so  safely  that  it 
was  only  at  moments,  when  I  was  alone,  that  I  thought 
about  Treliss  at  all.  But  these  last  weeks  it's  been  coming 
on  me  full  tide." 

"  What's  been  coming  on  you  ?  " 

"Well,  Scaw  House,  I  suppose  .  .  .  and  my  father  and 
grandfather.  My  grandfather  told  me  once  that  I' couldn't 
escape  from  the  family  and  I  can't — it's  the  most  extraor- 
dinary thing — " 

Stephen  saw  that  Peter  was  growing  agitated;  his  hands 
were  clenched  and  his  face  was  white. 

"  Mind  you,  I've  seen  my  grandfather  and  father  both 
go  under  it.  My  father  went  down  all  in  a  moment.  It 
isn't  any  one  thing — you  can  call  it  drink  if  you  like — but 
it's  simply  three  parts  of  us  aching  to  go  to  the  bad  .  .  . 
aching,  that's  the  word.  Anything  rotten — women  or  drink 
or  anything  you  like — as  long  as  we  lose  control  and  let 
the  devil  get  the  upper  hand.  Let  him  get  it  once — really 
get  it — and  we're  really  done — " 

Peter  paused  for  a  moment  and  then  went  on  hurriedLv 


«60  FORTITUDE 

as  though  he  were  telling  a  story  and  had  only  a  little  time 
in  M-hich  to  tell  it. 

"  But  that  isn't  all — it's  worse  than  that.  I've  been  feel- 
ing these  last  weeks  as  though  my  father  were  sitting  there 
in  that  beastly  house  with  that  filthy  woman — and  willing 
me — absolutely  with  all  his  might — to  go  under — " 

"  But  what  is  it,"  said  Stephen,  going,  as  always,  to  the 
simplest  aspect  of  the  case,  "  that  you  exactly  want  to  do?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  .  .  .  just  to  let  loose  the  whole  thing 
— I  did  break  out  once  at  Brockett's — I've  never  told  any- 
body, but  I  got  badly  drunk  one  night  and  then  went  back 
with  some  woman.  .  .  .  Oh!  it  was  all  filthy — but  I  was 
mad,  wild,  for  hours  .  .  .  insane — and  that  night,  in  the 
middle  of  it  all,  sitting  there  as  plainly  as  you  please,  there 
in  Scaw  House,  I  saw  my  father — as  plainly  as  I  see 
you — " 
I  "  All  young  men,"  said  Stephen,  "  'ave  got  to  go  through 
a  bit  of  filth.  You  aren't  the  sort  of  fellow,  Peter,  tliat 
stays  there.  Your  wanting  not  to  shows  that  you'll  come 
out  of  it  all  right." 

Here  was  a  case  where  Stephen's  simplicities  were  ob- 
viously of  little  avail. 

"  Ah,  but  don't  you  see,"  said  Peter  impatiently,  "  it's 
not  the  thing  itself  that  I  feel  matters  so  much,  although 
that's  rotten  enough,  but  it's  the  beastly  devil — real,  per- 
sonal— I  tell  you  I  saw  him  catch  my  grandfather  as  tight 
as  though  he'd  been  there  in  the  room  .  .  .  and  my  father, 
too.  I  tell  you,  this  last  week  or  two  I've  been  almost  mad 
.  .  .  wanting  to  chuck  it  all,  this  fighting  and  the  rest  and 
just  go  down  and  grovel  .  .  ." 

"  I  expect  it's  regular  work  you're  wanting,"  said 
Stephen,  "  keeping  your  mind  busy.  It's  bad  to  'ave  your 
sort  of  brain  wandering  round  with  nothing  to  feed  on. 
It'll  be  all  right,  boy,  in  a  day  or  two  when  you've  got  some 
work." 

Peter's  head  dropped  forward  on  to  his  hands.  "  I  don't 
know — it's  like  going  round  in  a  circle.  You  sec,  Stephen, 
what  makes  it  all  so  difficult  is — well,  I  don't  know  .  .  . 
why  I  haven't  told  you  before  .  .  .  but  the  fact  is — I'm  in 
love—" 

"  I  knew  it  a  while  back,"  said  Stephen  quietly,  "  watch- 


THE  BOOKSHOP  g51 

ing   your   face   when   you   didn't   know    I   was   lookin' — " 

"  Well,  it's  all  hopeless,  of  course.  I  don't  suppose  I 
shall  ever  see  her  again  .  .  .  but  that's  what's  made  this 
looking  for  work  so  difficult — I've  been  wanting  to  get  on 
— and  every  day  seems  to  place  her  further  away.  And 
then  when  I  get  hopeless  these  other  devils  come  round  and 
say  '  Oh  well,  you  can't  get  her,  you  know.  That's  as  im- 
possible as  anything — so  you'd  better  have  your  fling  while 
you  can.  .  .  .'     My  God !     I'm  a  beast !  " 

The  cry  broke  from  him  with  a  bitterness  that  filled  the 
bare  little  room. 

Stephen,  after  a  little,  got  up  and  put  his  hand  on  the 
boy's  shoulder. 

"  Nobody  ain't  going  to  touch  you  while  I'm  here,"  he 
said  simply  as  though  he  were  challenging  devils  and  men 
alike. 

Peter  looked  up  and  smiled.  "  What  an  old  brick  you 
are,"  he  said.  "  Do  you  remember  that  fight  Christmas 
time,  years  ago?  .  .  .  You're  always  like  that.  .  .  .  I've 
been  an  ass  to  bother  you  with  it  all  and  while  we've  got 
each  other  things  can't  be  so  bad."  He  got  up  and  stretched 
his  arms. 

"  Well,  it's  bedtime,  especially  as  you've  got  to  be  off 
early  to  that  old  restaurant — " 

Stephen  stepped  back  from  him. 

"  I've  been  meaning  to  tell  you,"  he  said,  "  that's  off. 
The  place  ain't  paying  and  the  boss  shut  four  of  us  down 
to-night  .  .  .  I'm  not  to  go  back  .  .  .  Peter,  boy,"  he  fin- 
ished, almost  triumphantly.  "  We're  up  against  it  .  .  . 
I've  got  a  quid  in  my  pocket  and  that's  all  there  is  to  it." 

They  faced  one  another  whilst  the  candle  behind  them 
guttered  and  blew  in  the  window  cracks,  and  the  cluster  of 
stars,  still  caught  in  the  dirty  roofs  and  chimneys  of  Bucket 
Lane,  twinkled,  desperately — ia  vain. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
STEPHEN'S  CHAPTER 


NO  knight — the  hero  of  any  chronicle — ever  went  for' 
ward  to  his  battle  with  a  braver  heart  than  did  Petei 
now  in  his  desperate  adventure  against  the  world.  His 
morbidity,  his  introspection,  his  irritation  with  Stephen's 
simplicities  fled  from  him  ...  he  was  gay,  filled  with  the 
glamour  of  showing  what  one  could  do  ...  he  did  not 
doubt  but  that  a  fortnight  would  see  him  in  a  magnificent 
fKJsition.  And  then — the  fortnight  passed  and  he  and 
Stephen  had  still  their  positions  to  discover — the  money 
moreover  was  almost  at  an  end  .  .  .  another  fortnight 
•would  behold  them  penniless. 

It  was  absurd — it  was  monstrous,  incredible.  Life  was 
not  like  that — Peter  bit  his  lip  and  set  out  again.  Editors 
had  not,  on  most  occasions,  vouchsafed  him  even  an  inter- 
view. Then  had  come  no  answer  to  the  four  halfpenny 
wrappers.  The  world,  like  a  wall  of  shining  steel,  closed 
him  in  with  impenetrable  silence. 

It  was  absurd — it  was  monstrous.  Peter  fought  des- 
perately, as  a  bird  beats  with  its  wings  on  the  bars  of  its 
cage.  They  were  having  the  worst  of  luck.  On  several 
occasions  he  had  been  just  too  late  and  some  one  had  got 
the  position  before  him.  Stephen  too  found  that  the  places 
where  he  had  worked  before  had  now  no  job  for  him.  "  It 
was  the  worst  time  in  the  world  ...  a  month  ago  now  or 
possibly  in  a  month's  time.  .  .  ." 

Stephen  did  not  tell  the  boy  that  away  from  London 
there  were  many  things  that  he  could  do — the  boy  was  not 
op  to  tramping.  Indeed,  nothing  was  more  remarkable 
than  the  way  in  which  Peter's  strength  seemed  to  strain,  like 
a  flood,  away.  It  was,  perhaps,  a  matter  of  nerves  as  mnch 
as  physical  strength — the  boy  was  burning  with  the  anxiety 
of  it,  whereas   to  Stephen   this   was  no  new   experience. 


THE  BOOKSHOP  g53 

Peter  saw  it  in  the  light  of  some  horrible  disaster  that  be- 
longed, in  all  the  world's  history,  to  him  alone.  He  came 
back  at  the  end  of  one  of  his  days,  white,  his  eyes  almost 
closed,  his  fingers  twitching,  his  head  hanging  a  little  .  .  . 
very  sUent. 

He  seemed  to  feel  bitterly  the  ignominy  of  it  as  though 
he  were  realising,  for  the  first  time,  that  nobody  wanted 
him.  He  had  come  now  to  be  ready  to  do  anything,  any- 
thing in  the  world,  and  he  had  the  look  of  one  who  was 
ready  to  do  anything.  His  blue  coat  was  shiny,  his  boots 
had  been  patched  by  Stephen — there  were  deep  black  bel- 
lows under  his  eyes  and  his  mouth  had  become  thin  and  hard. 

Stephen — having  himself  his  own  distresses  to  support — 
watched  the  boy  with  acute  anxiety.  He  felt  with  increas- 
ing unhappiness,  that  here  was  an  organism,  a  tempera- 
ment, that  was  new  to  him,  that  was  beyond  his  grasp. 
Peter  saw  things  in  it  all — this  position  of  a  desperate  cry 
for  work — that  he,  Stephen,  had  never  seen  at  all.  Peter 
would  sit  in  the  evening,  in  his  chair,  staring  in  front  of 
him,  silent,  and  hearing  nothing  that  Stephen  said  to  him. 
With  Stephen  life  was  a  case  of  having  money  or  not  hav- 
ing it — if  one  had  not  money  one  went  without  everything 
possible  and  waited  until  the  money  came  again  .  .  .  the 
tide  was  sure  to  turn.  But,  with  Peter,  this  was  all  a  fight 
against  his  father  who  sat,  apparently,  in  the  dark  rooms  at 
Scaw  House,  willing  disaster.  Now,  as  Stephen  and  all  the 
sensible  world  knew,  this  was  nonsense — 

It  was  also,  in  some  still  stranger  way,  a  fight  against 
London  itself — not  London,  a  place  of  streets  and  houses, 
of  Oxford  Street  and  Piccadilly  Circus  but  London,  an  ani- 
mal— a  kind  of  dragon  as  far  as  Stephen  could  make  it  out 
with  scales  and  a  tail — 

Now  what  was  one  to  make  of  this  except  that  the  boy's 
head  was  being  turned  and  that  he  ought  to  see  a  doctor. 

There  was  also  the  further  question  of  an  appeal  to 
Brockett's  or  Mr.  Zanti.  Stephen  knew  that  Herr  Gott- 
fried or  Mr.  Zanti  would  lend  help  eagerly  did  they  but 
know,  and  he  supposed,  from  the  things  that  Peter  had 
told  him,  that  there  were  also  warm  friends  at  Brockett's; 
but  the  boy  had  made  him  swear,  with  the  last  order  of 
fifolemnity,  that  he  would  send   no   word  to   either  place. 


254  FORTITUDE 

Peter  had  said  that  he  would  never  speak  to  him  again 
should  he  do  such  a  thing.  He  had  said  that  should  he 
once  obtain  an  independent  position  then  he  would  go  back 
.  .  .  but  not  before. 

Stephen  did  not  know  what  to  do  nor  where  to  go.  In 
another  month's  time  the  rent  could  not  be  paid  and  then 
they  must  go  into  the  street  and  Peter  was  in  no  condition 
for  that — he  should  rather  be  in  bed.  Mrs.  Williams,  it  is 
true,  would  not  be  hard  upon  them,  for  she  was  a  kind 
woman  and  had  formed  a  great  liking  for  Peter,  but  she 
had  only  enough  herself  to  keep  her  family  alive  and  she 
must,  for  her  children's  sake,  let  the  room. 

To  Stephen,  puzzling  in  vain  and  going  round  and  round 
in  a  hopeless  circle,  it  seemed  as  though  Peter's  brains  were 
locked  in  an  iron  box  and  they  could  not  find  a  key.  For 
himself,  well,  it  was  natural  enough !  But  Peter,  with  that 
genius,  that  no  one  should  want  him ! 

And  yet  through  it  all,  at  the  back  of  the  misery  and 
distress  of  it,  there  was  a  wild  pride,  a  fierce  joy  that  he  had 
the  key  with  him,  that  he  was  all  in  the  world  to  whom  the 
boy  might  look,  that  to  him  and  to  him  alone,  in  this  wild, 
cold  world  Peter  now  belonged. 

It  was  his  moment.  .  .  . 


At  the  end  of  a  terrible  day  of  disastrous  rejections 
Peter,  stumbling  down  the  Strand,  was  conscious  of  a  little 
public-house,  with  a  neat  bow-window,  that  stood  back  from 
the  street.  At  the  bottom  of  his  trouser  pocket  a  tiny  three- 
penny piece  that  Stephen  had,  that  morning,  thrust  upon 
him,  turned  round  and  round  in  his  fingers.  He  had  not 
spent  it — he  had  intended  to  restore  it  to  Stephen  in  the 
evening.  He  had  meant,  too,  to  walk  back  all  the  way  to 
Bucket  Lane  but  now  he  felt  that  he  could  not  do  that  un- 
less he  were  first  to  take  something.  This  little  inn  with 
its  bow-windows.  .  .  .  Down  the  Strand  in  the  light  of  the 
setting  sun,  he  saw  again  that  which  he  had  often  seen  dur- 
ing these  last  weeks — that  chain  of  gaunt  figures  that 
moved  with  bending  backs  and  tvisted  fingers,  on  and  out 
of  the  crowds  and  the  carriages — The  beggars!  .  .  .  He 


THE  BOOKSHOP  «55 

felt,  already,  that  they  knew  that  he  was  soon  to  be  one  of 
their  number,  that  every  day,  every  hour  brought  him  nearer 
to  their  ranks.  An  old  man,  dirty,  in  rags,  stepped  with 
an  eager  eye  past  him  and  stooped  for  a  moment  into  the 
gutter.  He  rose  again,  slipping  something  into  his  pocket 
of  his  tattered  coat.  He  gave  Peter  a  glance — to  the  boy 
it  seemed  a  glance  of  triumphant  recognition  and  then  he 
had  slipped  away. 

Peter  had  had  very  little  to  eat  during  these  last  days 
and  to-night,  for  the  first  time,  things  began  to  take  an  un- 
certain shape.  As  he  stood  on  the  kerb  and  looked,  it 
seemed  to  him  that  the  Strand  was  the  sea-road  at  Treliss, 
that  the  roar  of  the  traffic  was  the  noise  that  the  sea  made, 
far  below  them.  If  one  could  see  round  the  corner,  there 
where  the  sun  flung  a  patch  of  red  light,  one  would  come 
upon  Scaw  House  in  its  dark  clump  of  trees — and  through 
the  window  of  that  front  room,  Peter  could  see  his  father 
and  that  old  woman,  one  on  each  side  of  the  fire-place, 
drinking. 

But  the  sea-road  was  stormy  to-night,  its  noise  was  loud 
in  Peter's  ears.  And  then  the  way  that  people  brushed 
against  him  as  they  passed  recalled  him  to  himself  and  he 
slipped  back  almost  into  the  bow-window  of  the  little  inn. 
He  was  feeling  very  unwell  and  there  was  a  burning  pain 
in  his  chest  that  hurt  him  when  he  drew  a  deep  breath  .  .  . 
and  then  too  he  was  very  cold  and  his  teeth  chattered  in 
fits  as  though  he  had  suddenly  lost  control  of  them  and  they 
had  become  some  other  person's  teeth. 

Well,  why  not  go  into  the  little  inn  and  have  a  drink? 
Then  he  would  go  back  to  Bucket  Lane  and  lie  down  and 
never  wake  again.  For  he  was  so  tired  that  he  had  never 
known  before  what  it  was  to  be  tired  at  all — only  Stephen 
would  not  let  him  sleep.  .  .  ,  Stephen  was  cruel  and  would 
not  let  him  alone.  No  one  would  let  him  alone — the  world 
had  treated  him  very  evilly — ^what  did  he  owe  the  world? 

He  would  go  now  and  surrender  to  these  things,  these 
things  that  were  stronger  than  he  ...  he  would  drink  and 
he  would  sleep  and  that  should  be  the  end  of  everything 
.  .  .  the  blessed  end. 

He  swayed  a  little  on  his  feet  and  he  put  his  hand  to  his 
forehead  in  order  that  he  might  think  more  clearly. 


c 

c 


ftse  FORTITUDE 

Some  one  had  said  once  to  him  a  great  many  years  ago — 
"  It  is  not  life  that  matters  but  the  Courage  that  you  bring 
to  it."     Well,  that  was  untrue.     He  would  like  to  tell  the 
man  who  had  said  that  that  he  was  a  liar.     No  Courage^ 
could  be  enough  if  life  chose  to  be  hard.     No  Courage — / 

Nevertheless,  the  thought  of  somewhere  a  long  time  ago 
when  some  one  had  said  that  to  him,  slowly  filled  his  tired 
brain  with  a  distaste  for  the  little  inn  with  the  bow-win- 
dows. He  would  not  go  there  yet,  just  a  little  while  and 
then  he  would  go. 

Almost  dreaming — certainly  seeing  nothing  about  him 
that  he  recognised — he  stumbled  confusedly  down  to  the 
Embankment.  Here  there  was  at  any  rate  air,  he  drew 
his  shabby  blue  coat  more  closely  about  him  and  sat  down  on 
a  wooden  bench,  in  company  with  a  lady  who  wore  a  large 
damaged  feather  in  her  hat  and  a  red  stained  blouse  with 
torn  lace  upon  it  and  a  skirt  of  a  bright  and  tarnished  blue. 

The  lady  gave  him  a  nod. 

"  Cheer,  chucky,"  she  said. 

Peter  made  no  reply. 

"  Down  on  your  uppers  ?  My  word,  you  look  bad — 
Poor  Kid!  Well,  never  say  die — strike  me  blimy  but 
there's  a  good  day  coming — " 

"  I  sat  here  once  before,"  said  Peter,  leaning  forward  and 
addressing  her  very  earnestly,  "  and  it  was  the  first  time 
that  I  ever  heard  the  noise  that  London  makes.  If  you 
listen  you  can  hear  it  now — London's  a  beast  you  know— =-" 

But  the  lady  had  paid  very  httle  attention.  "  Men  are 
beasts,  beasts,"  she  said,  scowling  at  a  gap  in  the  side  of 
her  boots,  "  beasts,  that's  what  they  are.  'Aven't  'ad  any 
luck  the  last  few  nights.  Suppose  I'm  losin'  my  looks  sit- 
tin'  out  'ere  in  the  mud  and  rain.  There  was  a  time,  young 
feller,  my  lad,  when  I  'ad  my  carriage,  not  'arf !  "  She 
spat  in  front  of  her — "  'E  was  a  good  sort,  'e  was — give 
me  no  end  of  a  time  .  .  .  but  the  lot  of  men  I've  been 
meetin'  lately  ain't  fit  to  be  called  men — they  ain't — mean 
devils — leavin'  me  like  this,  curse  'em !  "  She  coughed. 
The  sun  had  set  now  and  the  lights  were  coming  out,  like 
glass  beads  on  a  string  on  the  other  side  of  the  river. 
"  Stoppin'  out  all  night,  ducky  ?  Stayin'  'ere  ?  'Cause  I 
got  a  bit  of  a  cough ! — disturbs  fellers  a  bit  .  .  .  last  feller 


THE  BOOKSHOP  «857 

said  as  'ow  'e  couldn't  get  a  bit  o'  sleep  because  of  it — 
damned  rot  I  call  it.  'Owever  it  isn't  out  of  doors  you  ought 
to  be  sittin',  chucky.     Feelin'  bad?  " 

Peter  looked  at  her  out  of  his  half-closed  eyes. 

"  I  can't  bother  any  more,"  he  said  to  her  sleepily. 
"  They're  so  cruel — they  won't  let  me  go  to  sleep.  I've 
got  a  pain  here — in  my  chest  you  know.  Have  you  got  a 
pain  in  your  chest?  " 

"  My  leg's  sore,"  she  answered,  "  where  a  chap  kicked 
me  last  week — just  because — oh  well,"  she  paused  mod- 
estly and  spat  again — "  It's  comin'  on  cold." 

A  cold  little  wind  was  coming  up  the  river,  ruffling  the 
tips  of  the  trees  and  turning  the  leaves  of  the  plane-trees 
back  as  though  it  wanted  to  clean  the  other  sides  of  them. 

Peter  got  up  unsteadily.  "  I'm  going  home  to  sleep," 
he  said,  "  I'm  dreadfully  tired.     Good-night." 

"  So  long,  chucky,"  the  lady  with  the  damaged  feather 
said  to  him.  He  left  her  eyeing  discontentedly  the  hole 
in  her  boot  and  trying  to  fasten,  with  confused  fingers,  the 
buttons  of  the  red  blouse. 

Peter  mechanically,  as  one  walking  in  a  dream,  crept 
into  an  omnibus.  Mechanically  he  left  it  and  mechanically 
climbed  the  stairs  of  the  house  in  Bucket  Lane.  There 
were  two  fixed  thoughts  in  his  brain — one  was  that  no  one 
in  the  world  had  ever  before  been  as  thirsty  as  he  was,  and 
that  he  would  willingly  commit  murder  or  any  violence  if 
thereby  he  might  obtain  drink,  and  the  other  thought  was 
that  Stephen  was  his  enemy,  that  he  hated  Stephen  because 
Stephen  never  left  him  alone  and  would  not  let  him  sleep 
— also  in  the  back  of  his  mind  distantly,  as  though  it  con- 
cerned some  one  else,  that  he  was  very  unhappy.  .  .  . 

Stephen  was  sitting  on  one  of  the  beds,  looking  in  front 
of  him.  Peter  moved  forward  heavily  and  sat  on  the  other 
bed.     They  looked  at  one  another. 

"  No  luck,"  said  Stephen,  "  Armstrong's  hadn't  room  for 
a  man.  Ricroft  wouldn't  see  me.  Peter,  I'm  thinking  we'll 
have  to  take  to  the  roads — " 

Peter  made  no  answer. 

"  Yer  not  lookin'  a  bit  well,  lad.  I  doubt  if  yer  can 
stand  much  more  of  it." 

Peter  looked  across  at  him  sullenly. 


258  FORTITUDE 

"Why  can't  you  leave  me  alone?"  lie  said.  "You're 
always  worrying — " 

A  slow  flush  mounted  into  Stephen's  cheeks  but  he  said 
nothing. 

"  Well,  why  don't  you  say  something  ?  Nothing  to  say 
— ^it  isn't  bad  enough  that  you've  brought  me  into  this — " 

"  Come,  Mr.  Peter,"  Stephen  answered  slowly.  "  That 
ain't  fair.  I  never  brought  you  into  this.  I've  done  my 
best." 

"  Oh,  blame  me,  of  course.  That's  natural  enough.  If 
it  hadn't  been  for  you — " 

Stephen  came  into  the  middle  of  the  floor. 

"  Come,  Peter  boy,  yer  tired.  Yer  don't  know  what  yer 
saying.  Best  go  to  bed.  Don't  be  saying  anything  that 
yer'd  be  regretting  afterwards — " 

Peter's  eyes  that  had  been  closed,  suddenly  opened,  blaz- 
ing. "  Oh,  damn  you  and  your  talk — I  hate  you.  I  wish 
I'd  never  seen  you — a  rotten  kind  of  friendship — "  his 
voice  died  off"  into  muttering. 

Stephen  went  back  to  his  bed.  "  This  ain't  fair,  Mr. 
Peter,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  "  You'll  be  sorry  after- 
wards. I  ain't  'ad  any  very  'appy  time  myself  these  last 
weeks  and  now — " 

Their  nerves  were  like  hot,  jangling  wires.  Suddenly 
into  the  midst  of  that  bare  room  there  had  sprung  between 
them  hatred.  They  faced  each  other  .  .  .  they  could  have 
leapt  at  one  another's  throats  and  fought.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  Peter  gave  a  little  cry  that  seemed  to  fill  the 
room.     His  head  fell  forward — 

"  Oh,  Stephen,  Stephen,  I'm  so  damned  ill,  I'm  so  dam- 
nably ill." 

He  caught  for  a  moment  at  his  chest  as  though  he  would 
tear  his  shirt  open.  Then  he  stumbled  from  the  bed  and 
lay  in  a  heap  on  the  floor  with  his  hands  spread  out — 

Stephen  picked  him  up  in  his  arms  and  carried  him  on  to 
his  bed. 

in 

The  little  doctor  who  attended  to  the  wants  of  Bucket 
Lane  was  discovered  at  his  supper.  He  was  a  dirty  little 
man,  with  large  dusty  spectacles,  a  red  nose  and  a  bald 


THE  BOOKSHOP  269 

head.  He  wore  an  old,  faded  velveteen  jacket  out  of  the 
pockets  of  which  stuck  innumerable  papers.  He  was  very 
often  drunk  and  had  a  shrew  of  a  wife  who  made  the  sober 
parts  of  his  life  a  misery,  but  he  was  kind-hearted  and  gen- 
erous and  had  a  very  real  knowledge  of  his  business. 

Mrs.  Williams  volubly  could  not  conceal  her  concern  at 
Peter's  condition — "  and  'im  such  a  nice-spoken  young 
genelman  as  I  was  saying  only  yesterday  tea-time,  there's 
nothin'  I  said,  as  I  wouldn't  be  willin'  to  do  for  that  there 
poor  Mr.  Westcott  and  that  there  poor  Mr.  Brant  'oo  are 
as  like  two  'elpless  children  in  their  fightin'  the  world  as 
ever  I  see  and  'ow  ever  can  I  help  'em  I  said — " 

"  Well,  my  good  woman,"  the  little  doctor  finally  inter- 
rupted, "  you  can  help  here  and  now  by  getting  some  hot 
water  and  the  other  things  I've  put  down  here." 

When  she  was  gone  he  turned  slowly  to  Stephen  who 
stood,  the  picture  of  despair,  looking  down  upon  Peter. 

" 'E's  goin'  to  die?"  he  asked. 

"  That  depends,"  the  little  doctor  answered.  "  The 
boy's  been  starved — ought  never  to  have  been  allowed  to 
get  into  this  condition.     Both  of  you  hard  up,  I  suppose  ."*  " 

"  As  'ard  up  as  we  very  well  could  be — "  Stephen  an- 
swered grimly. 

"Well— has  he  no  friends.?" 

There — the  question  at  last.  Stephen  took  it  as  he  would 
have  taken  a  blow  between  the  eyes.  He  saw  very  clearly 
that  the  end  of  his  reign  had  come.  He  had  done  what  he 
could  and  he  had  failed.  But  in  him  was  the  fierce  furious 
desire  to  fight  for  the  boy.  Why  should  he  give  him  up, 
now,  when  they  had  spent  all  these  weeks  together,  when 
they  had  struggled  for  their  very  existence  side  by  side. 
What  right  had  any  of  these  others  to  Peter  compared  with 
his  right.''  He  knew  very  well  that  if  he  gave  him  up  now 
the  boy  would  never  be  his  again.  He  might  see  him — ^yes 
— but  that  passing  of  Peter  that  he  had  already  begun  to 
realise  would  be  accomplished.  He  might  look  at  him  but 
only  as  a  wanderer  may  look  from  the  valley  up  to  the  hill. 
The  doctor  broke  in  upon  him  as  he  stood  hesitating 
there — 

"  Come,"  he  said  roughly,  "  we  have  not  much  time. 
The  boy  may  die.     Has  he  no  friends  ?  " 


260  FORTITUDE 

Stephen  turned  his  back  to  Peter.  "  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I 
know  where  they  are.     I  will  fetch  them  myself." 

The  doctor  had  not  lived  in  Bucket  Lane  all  these  years 
for  nothing.  He  put  his  hand  on  Stephen's  arm  and  said: 
"  You're  a  good  fellow,  by  God.     It'll  be  all  right." 

Stephen  went. 

On  his  way  to  Bennett  Square  a  thousand  thoughts  filled 
his  mind.  He  knew,  as  though  he  had  been  told  it  by  some 
higher  power,  that  Peter  was  leaving  him  now  never  to  re- 
turn. He  had  done  what  he  could  for  Peter — now  the  boy 
must  peiss  on  to  others  who  might  be  able,  more  fittingly,  to 
help  him.  He  cursed  the  Gods  that  they  had  not  allowed 
him  to  obtain  work  during  these  weeks,  for  then  Peter  and 
he  might  have  gone  on,  working,  prospering  and  the  part- 
ing might  have  been  far  distant. 

But  he  felt  also  that  Peter's  destiny  was  something 
higher  and  larger  than  anything  that  he  could  ever  com- 
pass— it  must  be  Peter's  hfe  that  he  should  always  be  leav- 
ing people  behind  him — stages  on  his  road — until  he  had 
attained  his  place.  But  for  Stephen,  a  loneliness  swept 
down  uf>on  him  that  seemed  to  turn  the  world  to  stone. 
Never,  in  all  the  years  of  his  wandering,  had  he  known  any- 
thing like  this.  It  is  v  ry  hard  that  a  man  should  care  for^ 
only  two  creatures  in  the  world  and  that  he  should  be  held,  / 
by  God's  hand,  from  reaching  either  of  them.  / 

The  door  of  Brockett's  was  opened  to  him  by  a  servant 
and  he  asked  for  Mrs.  Brockett.  In  the  cold  and  dark 
hall  the  lady  sternly  awaited  him,  but  the  sternness  fell 
from  her  hke  a  cloak  when  he  told  her  the  reason  of  his 
coming — 

"  Dear  me,  and  the  poor  boy  so  ill,"  she  said.  "  We 
have  all  been  very  anxious  indeed  about  poor  Mr.  Peter. 
We  had  tried  every  clue  but  could  hear  nothing  of  him. 
We  were  especially  eager  to  find  him  because  Miss  Monogue 
had  some  good  news  for  him  about  his  book.  There  is  a 
gentleman — a  friend  of  Mr.  Peter's — who  has  been  doing 
everything  to  find  him — who  is  with  Miss  Monogue  now. 
He  will  be  delighted.     Perhaps  you  will  go  up." 

Stephen  can  have  looked  no  very  agreeable  object  at 
this  time,  worn  out  by  the  struggle  of  the  last  weeks,  hag- 
gard and  gaunt^  his  beard  unkempt — but  Norah  Monogue 


THE  BOOKSHOP  861 

came   forward  to   him  with  hoth   her  hands   outstretched. 

"  Oh,  you  know  something  of  Peter — tell  us,  please,"  she 
said. 

A  stout,  pleasant-faced  gentleman  behind  her  was  intro- 
duced as  Mr.  Galleon. 

Stephen  explained.  "  But  why,  why,"  said  the  gentle- 
man, "didn't  you  let  us  know  before,  my  good  fellow?" 

Stephen's  brow  darkened.  "  Peter  didn't  wish  it,"  he 
said. 

But  Norah  Monogue  came  forward  and  put  her  hand  on 
his  arm.  "  You  must  be  the  Mr.  Brant  about  whom  he  has 
so  often  talked,"  she  said.  "  I  am  so  glad  to  meet  you  at 
last.  Peter  owes  so  much  to  you.  We  have  been  trying 
everywhere  to  get  word  of  him  because  some  publishers  have 
taken  his  novel  and  think  very  well  of  it  indeed.  But  come 
— do  let  us  go  at  once.     There  is  no  time  to  lose — " 

So  they  had  taken  his  novel,  had  they?  All  these  days 
— all  these  terrible  hours — that  starving,  that  ghastly  anxi- 
ety, the  boy's  terror — all  these  things  had  been  unneces- 
sary. Had  they  only  known,  this  separation  now  might 
have  been  avoided. 

He  could  not  trust  himself  to  speak  to  Bobby  Galleon 
and  Norah  Monogue.  These  were  the  people  who  were 
going  to  take  Peter  away. 

He  turned  and  went,  in  silence,  down  the  stairs. 

At  Bucket  Lane  Bobby  Galleon  took  affairs  into  his  own 
hands.  At  once  Peter  should  be  removed  to  his  house  in 
Chelsea — ^it  would  not  apparently  harm  him  to  be  moved 
that  night. 

Peter  was  still  unconscious.  Stephen  stood  in  the  back 
of  the  room  and  watched  them  make  their  preparations. 
They  had  all  forgotten  him.  For  a  moment  as  they  passed 
down  the  stairs  Stephen  had  his  last  glimpse  of  Peter. 
He  saw  the  high  white  forehead,  the  long  black  eyelashes, 
the  white  drawn  cheeks.  ...  At  this  parting  Peter  had  no 
eye  for  him. 

Bobby  Galleon  and  Miss  Monogue  both  spoke  to  Stephen 
pleasantly  before  they  went  away.  Stephen  did  not  hear 
what  they  said.  Bobby  took  Stephen's  name  down  on  a 
piece  of  paper.  .  .  .  Then  they  were  gone.  They  were  all 
gone. 


ftest  FORTITUDE 

Mrs.  Williams  looked  through  the  door  at  him  for  a  mo- 
ment but  something  in  the  man's  face  drove  her  away. 
Very  slowly  he  put  his  few  clothes  together.  He  must 
tramp  the  roads  again — the  hard  roads,  the  glaring  sun, 
cold  moon — always  going  on,  always  alone — 

He  shouldered  his  bag  and  went  out.  .  .  . 


BOOK  III 
THE  ROUNDABOUT 


CHAPTER  I 
NO.  7^  CHEYNE  WALK 


BURNISHED  clouds — swollen  with  golden  light  and 
soft  and  changing  in  their  outline — were  sailing, 
against  a  pale  green  autumn  evening  sky,  over  Chelsea. 

It  was  nearly  six  o'clock  and  at  the  Knightsbridge  end 
of  Sloane  Street  a  cloud  of  black  towers  quivered  against 
the  pale  green. 

The  yellow  light  that  the  golden  clouds  shed  upon  the 
earth  bathed  the  neat  and  demure  houses  of  Sloane  Street 
in  a  brief  bewildered  unreality.  Sloane  Street,  not  accus- 
tomed to  unreality,  regretted  amiably  and  with  its  gentle 
smile  that  Nature  should  insist,  once  every  day,  for  some 
half-hour  or  so,  on  these  mists  and  enchantments.  The 
neat  little  houses  called  their  masters  and  mistresses  within 
doors  and  advised  them  to  rest  before  dressing  for  dinner 
and  so  insured  these  many  comfortable  souls  that  they 
should  not  be  disturbed  by  any  unwelcome  violence  on  their 
emotions.  Soon,  before  looking-glasses  and  tables  shining 
with  silver  hair-brushes  bodies  would  be  tied  and  twisted 
and  faces  would  be  powdered  and  painted — ^meanwhile,  for 
that  dying  moment,  Sloane  Street  was  lifted  into  the  hearts 
of  those  burnished  clouds  and  held  for  an  instant  in  glory. 
Then  to  the  relief  of  the  neat  and  shining  houses  the  elec- 
tric lights  came  out,  one  by  one,  and  the  world  was  itself 
again.  .  .  . 

Beyond  Sloane  Square,  however,  the  King's  Road  chat- 
tered and  rattled  and  minded  not  at  all  whether  the  sky 
were  yellow  or  blue.  This  was  the  hour  when  shopping 
must  be  done  and  barrows  shone  beneath  their  flaring  gas, 
and  many  ladies,  with  the  appearance  of  having  left  their 
homes  for  the  merest  minute,  hurried  from  stall  to  stall. 
The  King's  Road  stands  like  a  noisy  Cheap  Jack  outside 
the  sanctities  of  Chelsea.  Behind  its  chatter  are  the  quiet- 
est streets  in  the  world,  streets  that  are  silent  because  they 

»65 


266  FORTITUDE 

prefer  rest  to  noise  and  not  at  all  because  they  liave  notK- 
ing  to  say.  The  King's  Road  has  been  hired  by  Chelsea 
to  keep  foreigners  away,  and  the  faint  smile  that  the  streets 
■wear  is  a  smile  of  relief  because  that  noisy  road  so  ad- 
mirably achieves  its  purpose.  In  this  mellow  evening  light 
the  little  houses  glow,  through  the  river  mists,  across  the 
cobbles.  The  stranger,  on  leaving  the  King's  Road  behind 
him,  is  swept  into  a  quiet  intimacy  that  has  nothing  of  any 
town  about  it;  he  is  refreshed  as  he  might  be  were  he  to 
leave  the  noisy  train  behind  him  and  plunge  into  the  dark, 
scented  hedge-rows  and  see  before  him  the  twinkling  lights 
of  some  friendly  inn.  As  the  burnished  clouds  fade  from 
the  sky  on  the  dark  surface  of  the  river  the  black  barges 
hang  their  lights  and  in  Cheyne  Row  and  Glebe  Place,  down 
Oakley  Street,  and  along  the  wide  spaces  of  Cheyne  Walk, 
lamps  burn  mildly  in  a  hundred  windows.  Guarded  on  one 
side  by  the  sweeping  murmur  of  the  river,  on  the  other  by 
the  loud  grimaces  of  the  King's  Road  Chelsea  sinks,  with 
a  sound  like  a  whisper  of  its  own  name,  into  evening.  .  .  . 
As  the  last  trailing  fingers  of  the  golden  clouds  die  before 
the  approaching  army  of  the  stars,  as  the  yellow  above  the 
horizon  gives  way  to  a  cold  and  iron  blue,  lights  come  out 
in  that  house  with  the  green  door  and  the  white  stone  steps 
— No.  72,  Cheyne  Walk — that  is  now  Peter  Westcott's 
home. 


Peter  had,  on  the  very  afternoon  of  that  beautiful  even- 
ing, returned  from  the  sea;  there,  during  the  last  three 
weeks,  he  had  passed  his  convalescence  and  now,  once  again, 
he  faced  the  world.  Mrs.  Galleon  and  the  Galleon  baby 
had  been  with  him  and  Bobby  had  come  down  to  them  for 
the  week-ends.  In  this  manner  Peter  had  had  an  oppor- 
tunity of  getting  to  know  Mrs.  Galleon  with  a  certainty 
and  speed  that  nothing  else  could  have  given  him.  During 
the  first  weeks  after  his  removal  from  Bucket  Lane,  he  had 
been  too  ill  to  take  any  account  of  his  neighbours  or  sur- 
roundings. He  had  been  sent  down  to  the  sea  as  soon  as 
it  was  possible  and  it  was  here,  watching  her  quietly  or 
listening  to  her  as  she  read  to  him,  walking  a  little  with 
her,  playing  with  her  baby,  that  he  grew  to  know  her  and 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  267 

to  love  her.  She  had  been  a  Miss  Alice  du  Cane,  at  first 
an  intelligent,  cynical  and  rather  trivial  person.  Then  sud- 
denly, for  no  very  sure  reason  that  any  one  could  discover, 
her  character  changed.  She  had  known  Bobby  during 
many  years  and  had  always  laughed  at  him  for  a  solemn, 
rather-priggish  young  man — then  she  fell  in  love  with  him 
and,  to  his  own  wild  and  delirious  surprise,  married  him. 
The  companions  of  her  earlier  girlhood  missed  her  cyni- 
cism and  complained  that  brilliance  had  given  way  to  com- 
monplace but  you  could  not  find,  in  the  whole  of  London, 
a  happier  marriage. 

To  Peter  she  was  something  entirely  new.  Norah 
Monogue  was  the  only  woman  with  whom,  as  yet,  he  had 
come  into  any  close  contact,  and  she,  by  her  very  humility, 
had  allowed  him  to  assume  to  her  a  superior,  rather  patron- 
ising attitude.  The  brief  vision  of  Clare  Rossiter  had  been 
altogether  of  the  opposite  kind,  partaking  too  furiously  of 
heaven  to  have  any  earthly  quality.  But  here  in  Alice  Gal- 
leon he  discovered  a  woman  who  gave  him  something — com- 
panionship, a  lively  and  critical  intelligence,  some  indefin- 
able quality  of  charm — that  was  entirely  new  to  him. 

She  chaffed  him,  criticised  him,  admired  him,  absorbed 
him  and  flattered  him  in  a  breath.  She  told  him  that  he 
had  a  "  degree  "  of  talent,  that  he  was  the  youngest  and 
most  ignorant  person  for  his  age  that  she  had  ever  met, 
that  he  was  conceited,  that  he  was  rough  and  he  had  no 
manners,  that  he  was  too  humble,  that  he  was  a  "  flopper  " 
because  he  was  so  anxious  to  please,  that  he  was  a  boy  and 
an  old  man  at  the  same  time  and  finally  that  the  Galleon 
baby — a  solemn  child — had  taken  to  him  as  it  had  never 
taken  to  any  one  during  the  eventful  three  years  of  its  life. 

Behind  these  contradictory  criticisms  Peter  knew  that 
there  was  a  friend,  and  he  was  sensible  enough  also  to  real- 
ise that  many  of  the  things  that  she  said  to  him  were  per- 
fectly true  and  that  he  would  do  well  to  take  them  to  heart. 
At  first  she  had  made  him  angry  and  that  had  delighted  her, 
so  he  had  been  angry  no  longer;  it  seemed  to  him,  during 
these  days  of  convalescence,  that  the  solemn  melodramatic 
young  man  of  Bucket  Lane  was  an  incredibility. 

And  yet,  although  he  felt  that  that  episode  had  been 
definitely  closed — shut  off  as  it  were  by  wide  doors  that 


SteS  FORTITUDE 

held  back  at  a  distance,  every  sound,  the  noise,  the  con- 
fusion, the  terror,  was  nevertheless  there,  but  for  the  mo- 
ment, the  doors  were  closed.  Only  in  his  dreams  they 
rolled  back  and,  night  after  night  he  awoke,  screaming, 
bathed  in  sweat,  trembling  from  head  to  foot.  Sometimes 
he  thought  that  he  saw  an  army  of  rats  advancing  across 
the  floor  of  their  Bucket  Lane  room  and  Stephen  and  he 
beat  them  off,  but  ever  they  returned.  .  .  . 

Once  he  thought  that  their  room  was  invaded  by  a  num- 
ber of  old  toothless  hags  who  came  in  at  the  door  and  the 
window,  and  these  creatures,  with  taloned  fingers  fought, 
screeching  and   rolling  their  eyes.  .  .  . 

Twice  he  dreamt  that  he  saw  on  a  hill,  high  uplifted 
against  a  stormy  sky,  the  statue  of  the  Man  on  the  Lion, 
gigantic.  He  struggled  to  see  the  Rider's  face  and  it 
seemed  to  him  that  multitudes  of  other  persons — men  and 
women — were  pleading,  with  hands  uplifted,  that  they  too 
might  see  the  face.  But  always  it  was  denied  them,  and 
Peter  woke  with  a  strange  oppression  of  crushing  disap- 
pointment. Sometimes  he  dreamt  of  Scaw  House  and  it 
was  always  the  same  dream.  He  saw  the  old  room  with 
the  marble  clock  and  the  cactus  plant,  but  about  it  all  now 
there  was  dust  and  neglect.  In  the  arm-chair,  by  the  fire, 
facing  the  window,  his  father,  old  now  and  bent,  was  sit- 
ting, listening  and  waiting.  The  wind  howled  about  the 
place,  old  boards  creaked,  casements  rattled  and  his  father 
never  moved  but  leaning  forward  in  his  chair,  watched, 
waited,  eagerly,  passionately,  for  some  news.  .  .  . 

in 

They  were  having  dinner  now — Bobby,  Mrs.  Galleon  and 
Peter — in  the  studio  of  the  Cheyne  Walk  House.  Outside, 
a  sheet  of  stars,  a  dark  river  and  the  pale  lamps  of  the 
street.  The  curtains  of  the  studio  were  still  undrawn  and 
the  glow  from  the  night  beyond  fell  softly  along  the  gleam- 
ing black  boards  of  the  floor  that  stretched  into  shadow  by 
the  farther  wall,  over  the  round  mahogany  table — without 
a  cloth  and  shining  with  its  own  colour— -deep  and  liquid 
brown, — and  out  to  the  pictures  that  hung  in  their  dull  gold 
,  frames  along  the  walL 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  1269 

About  Peter  was  a  sense  of  ease  and  rest,  of  space  that 
was  as  new  to  him  as  America  was  to  Columbus.  He  was 
not  even  now  completely  recovered  from  his  Bucket  Lane 
experiences  and  there  was  still  about  him  that  uncertainty 
of  life — when  one  sees  it  as  though  through  gauze  curtains 
— that  gives  reality  to  the  quality  of  dreams.  Life  was 
behind  him^  Life  was  ahead  of  him,  but  meantime  let  him 
rest  in  this  uncertain  and  beautiful  cotmtry  until  it  was 
time  for  him  to  go  forward  again.  This  intangibility — 
walking  as  it  were  in  a  fog  round  and  round  the  Nelson 
monument,  knowing  it  was  there  but  never  seeing  it — re- 
mained with  him  even  when  practical  matters  were  dis- 
cussed. For  instance,  "  Reuben  Hallard  "  was  to  be  pub- 
lished in  a  week's  time  and  Peter  was  to  receive  fifty  pounds 
in  advance  on  the  day  of  publication  (unusually  good  terms 
for  a  first  novel  Bobby  assured  him)  ;  also  Bobby,  through 
his  father,  thought  that  he  could  secure  Peter  regular  re- 
viewing. The  intention  then  was  that  Peter  should  remain 
with  the  Galleons  as  a  kind  of  paying  guest,  and  so  his 
pride  would  not  be  hurt  and  they  could  have  an  eye  upon 
him  during  this  launching  of  him  into  London.  It  was  for- 
tunate, perhaps,  that  Alice  Galleon  had  liked  him  down 
there  at  the  sea,  because  she  was  a  lady  who  had  her  own 
way  at  No.  72,  and  she  by  no  means  liked  every  one.  But 
perhaps  the  Galleon  baby  had  had  more  to  do  with  every- 
thing than  any  one  knew,  and  Mrs.  Galleon  assured  her 
friends  that  the  baby's  heart  would  most  certainly  be  broken 
if  "  the  wild  young  guest "  as  she  called  Peter,  were  car- 
ried off. 

And  wild  he  was — of  that  seeing  him  now  at  dinner  there 
in  the  studio  there  could  be  no  doubt.  He  was  wearing 
Bobby's  clothes  and  there  was  still  a  look  of  suffering  in 
his  eyes  and  around  his  mouth,  but  the  difference — his  dif- 
ference from  the  things  about  him — went  deeper  than  that. 
The  large  high  windows  of  the  studio  with  the  expanse  of 
wild  and  burning  stars  between  their  black  frames  an- 
swered Peter's  eyes  as  he  faced  them.  Mrs.  Galleon,  as 
she  watched  him,  was  reminded  of  other  things,  of  other 
persons,  of  other  events,  that  had  marked  his  earlier  life. 
She  glanced  from  Peter's  eyes  to  Bobby's.  She  smiled,  for 
on  an  earlier  day,  she  had  seen  that  same  antithesis — the 


rtO  FORTITUDE 

gulf  that  is  fixed  between  Imagination  and  Reality — and 
had  known  its  meaning. 

But  for  Peter,  all  he  asked  now  was  that  he  might  be 
allowed  to  rest  in  the  midst  of  this  glorious  comfort.  His 
e\il  dreams  were  very  far  away  from  him  to-night.  The 
food,  the  colour — the  fruit  piled  high  in  the  silver  dishes, 
the  glittering  of  the  great  silver  candelabra  that  stood  on 
the  middle  of  the  table,  the  deep  red  of  the  roses  in  the 
bowl  at  his  side,  tlie  deeper  red  of  the  Port  that  shone  in 
front  of  Bobby  and  then,  beneath  all  this,  as  though  the 
table  were  a  coloured  ship  sailing  on  a  solemn  sea,  the  dark, 
deep  shining  floor  that  faded  into  shadow — all  this  excited 
him  so  that  his  hands  trembled. 

He  spoke  to  Mrs.  Galleon: 

"  I  wonder  if  you  will  do  me  a  favour,"  he  said  very 
earnestly. 

"  Anything  in  reason,"  she  answered,  laughing  back  at 
his  gravity. 

"  Well,  don't  call  me  Mr.  Westcott  any  more.  Because 
I'm  going  to  live  here  and  because  I'm  too  old  a  friend  of 
Bobby's  and  because,  finally,  I  hate  being  called  Mr.  West- 
cott by  anybody,  might  it  be  Peter.?" 

"  Joseph  calls  him  Peter  as  it  is,"  said  Bobby  quite  ear- 
nestly looking  at  his  wife. 

They  were  both  so  grave  about  it  that  Alice  Galleon 
couldn't  be  anything  but  grave  too.  She  knew  that  it  was 
really  a  definite  appeal  on  behalf  of  both  of  them  that  she 
should  here  and  now,  solemnly  put  her  sign  of  approval  on 
Peter.  It  was  almost  in  the  way  that  they  waited  for  her 
to  answer,  a  ceremony.  She  was  even,  as  she  looked  at 
them,  surprised  into  a  sudden  burst  of  tenderness  towards 
them  both.  Bobby  so  solemn,  such  a  dear,  really  quite  an 
age  and  yet  as  young  as  any  infant  in  arms.  Peter  with 
forces  and  impulses  that  might  lead  to  an^'thing  or  wreck 
him  altogether,  and  yet,  through  it  all  younger  even  than 
Bobby.  Oh !  what  an  age  she,  Alice  Galleon,  seemed  to 
muster  at  the  sight  of  their  innocent  trust !  Did  every 
woman  feel  as  old,  as  protecting,  as  tenderly  indulgent,  to- 
wards every  man?  .  .  . 

"  Why,  of  course,"  she  answered  quietly,  "  Peter  it  shall 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  ^71' 

Bobby  raised  his  port.  "  Here's  to  Peter — to  Peter  and 
Reuben  Hallard  ' — overwhelming  success  to  both  of  them." 

Emotion,  for  an  instant,  held  them.  Then  quietly,  they 
stepped  back  again.  It  was  almost  too  good  to  be  true 
that,  after  all  the  turnings  and  twistings,  life  should  have 
brought  Peter  to  this.  He  did  not  look  very  far  ahead, 
he  did  not  ask  himself  whether  the  book  were  likely  to  be 
a  success,  whether  his  career  would  justify  this  beginning. 
If  only  they  would  let  him  alone.  .  .  .  He  did  not,  even  to 
himself,  name  those  powers.  He  was  wrapped  about  with 
comfort,  he  had  friends,  above  all  (and  this  he  had  discov- 
ered at  the  sea)  the  Galleons  knew  Miss  Rossiter  .  .  .  this 
last  thought  seemed,  by  the  glorious  clamour  of  it,  to  draw 
that  sheet  of  stars  down  through  the  window  into  the  room, 
the  air  crackled  with  their  splendour. 

He  was  drawn  back,  down  into  the  world  again,  by  hear- 
ing Bobby's  voice: 

"  The  evening  post  and  a  letter  for  you,  Peter." 

He  looked  down  and,  with  a  sudden  pang  of  accusing 
shame  because  he  had  forgotten  so  easily,  with  also  a  sure 
knowledge  that  that  easy  escape  from  his  other  life  was 
already  forbidden  him,  saw  that  the  letter  was  from 
Stephen.  He  felt  that  their  eyes  were  upon  him  as  he 
took  the  letter  up  and  he  also  felt  that  in  Alice  Galleon's 
gaze  there  was  a  wise  and  tender  understanding  of  the 
things  that  he  must  be  feeling.  The  roughness  of  the  en- 
velope, the  rudeness  of  the  hand-writing,  a  stain  in  one 
corner  that  might  be  beer,  the  stamp  set  crookedly — these 
things  seemed  to  him  like  so  many  voices  that  called  him 
back.  Five  minutes  ago  those  days  in  Bucket  Lane  had 
belonged  to  another  life,  now  he  was  still  there  and  to- 
morrow he  must  tramp  out  again,  to-morrow.  .   .  . 

The  letter  said: 

Writing  here  dear  Peter  at  twelve  o'clock  noon,  the  Red 
Crown  Inn,  Druttledge,  on  the  road  to  Exeter,  a  little  house 
where  thiccy  handy-legged  man  you've  heard  me  tell  about  is 
Keeper  and  a  good  fellow  and  there's  queer  enough  company 
in  kitchen  now  to  please  you.  A  rough  lot  of  fellows:  and 
a  storm  coming  up  black  over  high  woods  that'll  make  walkin' 
no  easy  matter  on  a  slimy  road,  and,  dear  hoy,  I've  been 


«72  FORTITUDE 

thinkin*  strange  about  you  and  *ow  youll  pull  along  nith 
your  kind  friends.  That  nice  gentleman  sent  a  telegram  at 
he  promised  to  and  says  you  pull  finely  along.  Ilopin'  you 
really  are  better.  But  dear  boy,  if  you  find  you  can  give  me 
just  a  word  on  paper  sayin'  that  hear  there  is  no  course  for 
worryin'  about  your  health,  then  I'm  happy  because,  dear  boy, 
you'm  always  in  my  thoughts  and  I  loi>e  you  fine  and  wish  to 
God  I  could  have  made  everything  easier  up  along  in  thiccy 
Bucket  Lane.  I  go  from  hear  by  road  to  Cornwall  and  Tre- 
liss.  I'm  expecting  to  find  work  there.  Dear  boy,  don't 
forget  me  and  see  me  again  one  day  and  write  a  letter.  They 
are  getting  too  much  into  their  bellies  and  making  the  devil's 
own  noise.  There  is  Thunder  coming  the  air  is  that  still 
over  the  roof  of  the  barn  and  the  road's  dead  white.  Dear 
Boy,  I  am  your  friend, 

Stephen  Brant. 

The  candles  blew  a  little  in  the  breeze  from  the  open 
window  and  the  lighted  shadows  ran  flickering  in  silver 
lines,  along  the  dark  floor.  Peter  stood  holding  the  letter 
in  his  hand,  looking  out  on  to  the  black  square  of  sky;  the 
lights  of  the  barges  swung  down  the  river  and  he  could 
hear,  very  faintly,  the  straining  of  ropes  and  the  turning  of 
some  mysterious  wheel. 

He  saw  Stephen — the  great  head,  the  flowing  beard,  the 
huge  body — and  then  the  inn  with  the  thunder  coming  over 
the  hill,  and  then,  beyond  that  Treliss  gleaming  with  its 
tiers  of  lights,  above  the  breast  of  the  sea.  And  from  here, 
from  this  wide  Embankment,  down  to  that  sea,  there 
stretched,  riding  over  hills,  bending  into  valleys,  always 
white  and  hard  and  stony,  the  road.  .  .  . 

For  an  instant  he  felt  as  though  the  studio,  the  lights, 
the  comforts  were  holding  him  like  a  prison — 

"  It's  a  letter  from  Stephen  Brant,"  he  said,  turning 
back  from  the  window.     "  He  seems  well  and  happy — " 

"  Where  is  he  ?  " 

"  Eating  bread  and  cheese  at  an  inn  somewhere — on  the 
road  down  to  Cornwall." 

IT 

On  the  following  Tuesday  "  Reuben  Hallard  "  was  pub- 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  273 

lished  and  on  the  Thursday  afternoon  Henry  Galleon  and 
Clare  Rossiter  were  to  come  to  tea.  "  Reuben  Hallard  "  ar- 
rived in  a  dark  red  cover  with  a  white  paper  label.  The  six 
copies  lay  on  the  table  and  looked  at  Peter  as  though  he  had 
had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  their  existence.  He  looked 
down  upon  them,  opened  one  of  them  very  tenderly,  read 
half  a  page  and  felt  that  it  was  the  best  stuff  he'd  ever 
seen.  He  read  the  rest  of  the  page  and  thought  that  the 
author,  whoever  the  creature  might  be,  deserved  imprison- 
ment for  writing  such  nonsense. 

The  feeling  of  strangeness  towards  it  all  was  increased 
by  the  fact  that  Bobby  had,  with  the  exception  of  the  final 
proofs — these  Peter  had  read  down  by  the  sea — done  most 
of  the  proof-correcting.  It  was  a  task  for  which  his  prac- 
tical common  sense  and  lack  of  all  imagination  admirably 
fitted  him.  There,  at  any  rate,  "  Reuben  Hallard  "  was, 
ready  to  face  all  the  world,  to  go,  perhaps,  to  the  farthest 
Hebrides,  to  be  lost  in  all  probability,  utterly  lost,  in  the 
turgid  flood  of  contemporary  fiction. 

There  was  a  dedication  "  To  Stephen "...  How  sur- 
prised Stephen  would  be!  He  looked  at  the  chapter  head- 
ings— An  Old  Man  with  a  Lantern — the  Road  at  Night. 
.  .  .  Sun  on  the  Western  Moor — Stevenson — Tushery  all 
of  it !     How  they'd  tear  it  to  bits,  those  papers ! 

He  laughed  to  himself  to  think  that  there  had  once  been 
a  day  when  he  had  thought  that  the  thing  would  make 
his  fortune!  And  yet — he  turned  the  pages  over  tenderly 
— there  might  be  something  to  be  said  for  it.  Miss  Monogue 
had  thought  well  of  it.  These  publishers,  blase,  cynical 
fellows,  surely  believed  in  it. 

It  was  fat  and  red  and  comfortable.  It  had  a  worldly, 
prosperous  look.  "  Reuben  Hallard  and  His  Adventures  " 
.  .  .  Good   Lord!     What   cheek. 

There  were  five  copies  to  give  away.  One  between 
Bobby  and  Mrs.  Galleon,  one  for  Stephen,  one  for  Miss 
Monogue,  one  for  Mrs.  Brockett  and  one  for  Mr.  Zanti. 
"  Reuben  Hallard  and  His  Adventures,"  by  Peter  Westcott. 
They  would  be  getting  it  now  at  the  newspaper  oflSces. 
The  Mascot  would  have  a  copy  and  the  fat  little  chocolate 
consumer.  It  would  stand  with  a  heap  of  others,  and  be 
ticked  off  with  a  heap  of  others,  for  some  youth  to  exercise 


«74  FORTITUDE 

his  wit  upon.  As  to  any  one  buying  the  book?  Who  ever 
saw  any  one  buying  a  six-shilling  novel?  It  was  only 
witliin  the  last  year  or  so  that  the  old  three  volumes  with 
their  thirtj'-one-and-six  had  departed  this  life.  The  pub- 
lishers had  assured  Peter  that  this  new  six-shilling  form 
was  the  thing.  "  Please  have  you  got  '  Reuben  Hallard  '  by 
Peter  Westcott?  .  .  .  Thank  you,  I'll  take  it  with  me." 

No,  it  was  inconceivable. 

There  poor  Reuben  would  lie — deserted,  still-bom,  ever 
dustier  and  dustier  whilst  other  stories  came  pouring,  pour- 
ing from  endless  presses,  covering,  crowding  it  down, 
stamping  upon  it,  burying  it.  .  .  .  "  Here  lies  '  Reuben 
Hallard.'  .  .  ." 

Poor  Peter! 

On  Thursday,  however,  there  was  the  tea-party — a  Thurs- 
day never  to  be  forgotten  whilst  Peter  was  alive.  Bobby 
had  told  him  the  day  before  that  his  father  might  be  com- 
ing. "  The  rest  of  the  family  will  turn  up  for  certain. 
They  want  to  see  you.  They're  always  all  agog  for  any 
new  thing — one  of  them's  always  playing  Cabot  to  some- 
body else's  Columbus,  But  father's  uncertain.  He  gets 
something  into  his  head  and  then  nothing  whatever  will 
draw  him  out — but  I  exjject  he'll  turn  up." 

The  other  visitor  was  announced  to  Peter  on  the  very 
day. 

"  By  the  way,  Peter,  somebody's  coming  to  tea  this  after- 
noon who's  met  you  before — met  you  at  that  odd  Ixiarding- 
house  of  yours — a  Miss  Rossiter.  Clare's  an  old  friend 
of  ours.  I  told  you  down  at  the  sea  about  her  and  you 
said  you  remembered  meeting  her." 

"  Remembered  meeting  her ! "  Did  Dante  remember 
meeting  Beatrice — did  Petrarch  remember  Laura?  Did 
Keats  forget  his  Fanny  Brawne?  Did  Richard  Feverel 
forget  his  Lucy? 

On  a  level  with  these  high-thinking  gentlemen  was  Peter, 
disguising  his  emotions  from  Alice's  sharp  eyes  but  silent, 
breathless,  wanting  some  other  place  than  that  high  studio 
in  which  to  breathe.  "  Yes — she  came  to  tea  once  with  a 
Miss  Monogue  there — I  liked  her.  .  .  ." 

He  was  not  there,  but  rather  on  some  height  alone  with 
her   and    their   hands   touched   over   a   photograph.     "  The 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  275 

Man  on  the  Lion."  There  was  something  worthy  of  his 
feeling   for  her! 

Meanwhile,  for  the  first  part  of  the  afternoon  one  must 
put  up  with  the  Galleon  family.  Had  Peter  been  suffi- 
ciently calm  and  sensible  these  appendages  to  a  great 
author  would  have  been  worth  his  attention.  Behold  them 
in  relation  to  "  Henry  Lessingham,"  soaked  in  the  works, 
bearing  on  their  backs  the  whole  Edition  de  Luxe,  decking 
themselves  with  the  little  odds  and  ends  of  literary  finery 
that  they  had  picked  up,  bursting  with  the  good-nature  of 
assured  self-consequence — harmless,  foolish,  comfortable. 
Mrs.  Galleon  was  massive  with  a  large  flat  face  that  jumped 
suddenly  into  expression  when  one  least  expected  it.  There 
was  a  great  deal  of  silk  about  her,  much  leisurely  movement 
and  her  tactics  were  silence  and  a  slow,  significant  smile — 
these  she  always  contributed  to  any  conversation  that  was 
really  beyond  her.  Had  she  not,  during  many  years  of  her 
life,  been  married  to  a  genius  she  would  have  been  an  in- 
tensely slow-moving  but  adequate  housekeeper — as  it  was, 
her  size  and  her  silence  enabled  her  to  keep  her  place  at 
many  literary  dinners.  Peter,  watching  her,  was  consumed 
with  wonder  that  Henry  Galleon  could  ever  have  married 
her  and  understood  that  Bobby  was  the  child  of  both  his 
parents.  Bobby  had  a  brother  and  sister — Percival  and 
Millicent.  Percival  was  twenty-five  and  had  written  two 
novels  that  were  considered  promising  by  those  who  did  not 
know  that  he  was  the  son  of  his  father.  He  was  slim  and 
dark  with  a  black  thread  of  a  moustache  and  rather  fine 
white  fingers.  His  clothes  were  very  well  cut  but  his  ap- 
pearance was  a  little  too  elaborately  simple.  His  sister,  a 
girl  of  about  eighteen,  was  slim  and  dark  also;  she  had  the 
eager  appearance  of  one  who  has  heard  just  enough  to 
make  her  very  anxious  to  hear  a  great  deal  more. 

One  felt  that  she  did  not  want  to  miss  anything,  but 
probably  her  determination  to  be  her  father's  daughter 
would  prevent  her  from  becoming  very  valuable  or  intelli- 
gent. 

Finally  it  was  strange  that  Bobby  had  so  completely  es- 
caped the  shadow  of  his  father's  mantle.  These  people 
were  intended,  of  course,  to  be  the  background  of  Peter's 
afternoon  and  it  was  therefore   more  than  annoying  that 


«76  FORTITUDE 

that  was  the  very  last  thing  that  they  were.  Millicent 
and  Percival  made  a  ball  and  then  flung  it  backwards  and 
forwards  throughout  the  affair.  Their  mother  watched 
them  with  appreciation  and  Alice  Galleon,  who  knew  them, 
gave  them  tea  and  cake  and  let  them  have  their  way.  Into 
the  midst  of  this  Henry  Galleon  came — a  little,  round,  fat 
man  with  a  face  like  a  map,  the  body  of  Napoleon  and  a 
trot  round  the  room  like  a  very  amiable  pony,  eyes  that 
saw  e\'erything,  understood  everything,  and  forgave  every- 
thing, a  brown  buff  waistcoat  with  gilt  buttons,  white  spats 
and  a  voice  that  rolled  and  roared  ...  he  was  the  tender- 
est,  most  alarming  person  in  any  kind  of  a  world.  He  was 
80  gentle  that  any  sparrow  would  trust  him  implicitly  and 
so  terrific  that  an  army  would  most  certainly  fly  from  before 
him.  He  ate  tea-cake,  smiled  and  shook  hands  with  Peter, 
listened  for  half  an  hour  to  the  spirited  conversation  of 
his  two  children  and  trotted  away  again,  leaving  behind 
him  an  atmosphere  of  gentle  politeness  and  an  amazing 
savoir-faire  that  one  saw  his  children  struggling  to  catch. 
They  finally  gave  it  up  about  half-past  five  and  retreated, 
pressing  Peter  to  pay  them  a  call  at  the  earliest  opportunity. 

This  was  positively  all  that  Peter  saw,  on  this  occasion, 
of  Henry  Galleon.  It  was  quite  enough  to  give  him  a  great 
deal  to  think  about,  but  it  could  scarcely  be  called  a  meet- 
ing. 

At  quarter  to  six  when  Peter  was  in  despair  and  Alice 
Galleon  had  ordered  the  tea-things  to  be  taken  away  Clare 
Rossiter  rushed  in.  She  stood  a  whirlwind  of  flying  col- 
ours in  the  middle  of  the  Studio  now  sinking  into  twilight. 
"  Alice  dear,  I  am  most  terribly  sorry  but  mother  would 
stay.  I  couldn't  get  her  to  leave  and  it  was  all  so  awk- 
ward. How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Westcott.'*  Do  you  remem- 
ber— we  met  at  Treliss — and  now  I  must  rush  back  this 
very  minute.  We  are  dining  at  seven  before  the  Opera, 
and  father  wants  that  music  you  promised  him — the 
Brahms  thing.  Oh!  is  it  upstairs?  Well,  if  you  don't 
mind.  .  .  ." 

Alice  Galleon  left  them  together.  Peter  could  say  noth- 
ing at  all.  He  stood  there,  shifting  from  foot  to  foot, 
white,  absolutely  tongue-tied. 

She  felt  his  embarrassment  and  struggled. 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  877 

"  I  hear  that  you've  been  very  ill,  Mr.  Westcott.  I'm 
so  dreadfully  sorry  and  I  do  hope  that  you're  better  ?  " 

He  muttered  something. 

"  Your  book  is  out,  isn't  it  ?  *  Reuben  Hallard '  is  the 
name.  I  must  get  father  to  put  it  down  on  his  list.  One's 
first  books  must  be  so  dreadfully  exciting — and  so  alarming 
.  .  .  the  reviews  and  everything — what  is  it  about  ?  " 

He  murmured  "  Cornwall." 

"Cornwall.''  How  delightful!  I  was  only  there  once. 
MuUion.  Do  you  know  MuUion  ?  "  She  struggled  along. 
The  pain  that  had  begun  in  his  heart  was  now  at  his  throat 
— his  throat  was  full  of  spiders'  webs.  He  could  scarcely 
see  her  in  the  dark  but  her  pale  blue  dress  and  her  dark 
eyes  and  her  beautiful  white  hands — her  little  figure  danced 
against  the  dark,  shining  floor  like  a  fairy's. 

He  heard  her  sigh  of  relief  at  Alice  Galleon's  return. 

"  Oh !  thank  you,  dear,  so  much.  Good-bye,  Mr.  West- 
cott— I  shall  read  the  book." 

She  was  gone. 

"  Lights !  Lights !  "  cried  Alice  Galleon.  "  How  pro- 
voking of  her  not  to  come  to  tea  properly.  Well,  Peter.'' 
How  was  it  all }  " 

He  was  guilty  of  abominable  rudeness. 

He  burst  from  the  room  without  a  word  and  banged,  des- 
perately, the  door  behind  him. 


CHAPTER  II 

A  CHAPTER  ABOUT  SUCCESS:  HOW  TO  WIN  IT,  HOW 

TO  KEEP   IT— WITH   A    XOTE   AT  THE   END 

FROM  HENRY  GALLEON 


THE  shout  of  applause  with  which  "  Reuben  Hallard  " 
was  greeted  still  remains  one  of  the  interesting  cases  in 
modern  literary  history.  At  this  time  of  day  it  all  seems 
ancient  and  distant  enough;  the  book  has  been  praised, 
blamed,  lifted  up,  hurled  down  a  thousand  times,  and  has 
finally  been  discovered  to  be  a  book  of  promise,  of  natural 
talent,  with  a  great  deal  of  crudity  and  melodrama  and  a 
little  beauty.  It  does  not  stand  of  course  in  comparison 
with  Peter  Westcott's  later  period  and  yet  it  has  a  note  that 
his  hand  never  captured  afterwards.  How  incredibly  bad 
it  is  in  places,  the  Datchett  incidents,  with  their  flames  and 
screams  and  murder  in  the  dark,  sufficiently  betray:  how 
fine  it  can  be  such  a  delight  as  The  Cherry  Orchard  chapter 
shows,  and  perhaps  the  very  badness  of  the  crudities  helped 
in  its  popularity,  for  there  was  nothing  more  remarkable 
about  it  than  the  fashion  in  which  it  captured  every  class 
of  reader.  But  its  success,  in  reality,  was  a  result  of  the 
exact  moment  of  its  appearance.  Had  Peter  waited  a 
thousand  years  he  could  not  possibly  have  chosen  a  time 
more  favourable.  It  was  that  moment  in  literary  history, 
when  the  world  had  had  enough  of  lilies  and  was  turning, 
with  relief,  to  artichokes.  There  was  a  periodical  of  this 
time  entitled  The  Green  Volume.  This  appeared  some- 
where about  1890  and  it  brought  with  it  a  band  of  young 
men  and  women  who  •were  exceedingly  clever,  saw  the 
quaintness  of  life  before  its  reality  and  stood  on  tiptoe  in 
order  to  obser\'e  things  that  were  really  growing  quite  close 
to  the  ground.  This  quarterly  produced  some  very  ad- 
mirable work;  its  contributors  were  all,  for  a  year  or  two, 
as  clever  as  they  were  young  and  as  cynical  as  either.  The 
world  was  dressed  in  a  powder  puff  and  danced  beneath 

278 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  ^79 

Chinese  lanterns  and  was  as  wicked  as  it  could  b©  in  arti- 
ficial rose-gardens.  It  was  all  great  fun  for  a  year  or 
two.  .  .  . 

Then  The  Green  Volume  died,  people  began  to  whisper 
about  slums  and  drainage,  and  Swedish  drill  for  ten  minutes 
every  morning  was  considered  an  admirable  thing.  On 
the  edge  of  this  new  wave  came  "  Reuben  Hallard/'  com- 
bining as  it  did  a  certain  amount  of  affectation  with  a  good 
deal  of  naked  truth,  and  having  the  rocks  of  Cornwall  as 
well  as  its  primroses  for  its  background.  It  also  told  a 
story  with  a  beginning  to  it  and  an  end  to  it,  and  it  con- 
tained the  beautiful  character  of  Mrs.  Poveret,  a  character 
that  was  undoubtedly  inspired  by  that  afternoon  that  Peter 
had  with  his  mother. 

In  addition  to  all  this  it  must  be  remembered  that  the 
world  was  entirely  unprepared  for  the  book's  arrival.  It 
had  been  in  no  fashion  heralded  and  until  a  long  review  ap- 
peared in  The  Daily  Globe  no  one  noticed  it  in  any  way. 
Then  the  thing  really  began.  The  reviewers  were  glad  to 
find  something  in  a  dead  season,  about  which  a  column  or 
two  might  possibly  be  written;  the  general  public  was  de- 
lighted to  discover  a  novel  that  was  considered  by  good 
judges  to  be  literature  and  that,  nevertheless,  had  as  good 
a  story  as  though  it  weren't — its  faults  were  many  and  some 
of  its  virtues  accidental,  but  it  certainly  deserved  success 
as  thoroughly  as  did  most  of  its  contemporaries.  Edition 
followed  edition  and  "  Reuben  Hallard  "  was  the  novel  of 
the  spring  of  1896. 

The  effect  of  all  this  upon  Peter  may  easily  be  imagined. 
It  came  to  him  first,  with  those  early  reviews  and  an  en- 
couraging letter  from  the  publishers,  as  something  that  did 
not  belong  to  him  at  all,  then  after  a  month  or  so  it  be- 
longed to  him  so  completely  that  he  felt  as  though  he  had 
been  used  to  it  all  his  life.  Then  slowly,  as  the  weeks 
passed  and  the  success  continued,  he  knew  that  the  publi- 
cation of  this  book  had  changed  the  course  of  his  life.  Let- 
ters from  agents  and  publishers  asking  for  his  next  novel, 
letters  from  America,  letters  from  unknown  readers,  all 
these  things  showed  him  that  he  could  look  now  towards 
countries  that  had  not,  hitherto,  been  enclosed  by  his 
horizon.     He  breathed  another  air. 


280  FORTITUDE 

And  yet  he  was  astonishingly  simple  about  it  all — ^very 
young  and  very  naive.  The  two  things  that  he  felt  about 
it  were,  first,  that  it  would  please  very  much  his  friends — 
Bobby  and  his  wife,  Mrs.  Brockett,  Norah  Monogue,  Mr. 
Zanti,  Herr  Gottfried  and,  above  all,  Stephen;  and  sec- 
ondly, that  all  those  early  years  in  Cornwall — the  beatings, 
his  mother,  Scaw  House,  even  Dawson's — had  been  of  use 
to  him.  One  remembers  those  extraordinary  chapters  con- 
cerning Reuben  and  his  father — here  Peter  had,  for  the 
first  time,  allowed  some  expression  of  his  attitude  to  it  all 
to  escap)e  him. 

He  felt  indeed  as  though  the  success  of  the  book  placed 
for  a  moment  all  that  other  life  in  the  background — really 
away  from  him.  For  the  first  time  since  he  left  Brockett's 
he  was  free  from  a  strange  feeling  of  apprehension.  .  .  . 
Scaw  House  was  hidden. 

He  gave  himself  up  to  glorious  life.  He  plunged  into 
it  .  .  . 


n 

He  stepped,  at  first  timidly,  into  literary  London.  It 
was,  at  first  sight,  alarming  enough  because  it  seemed  to 
consist,  so  largely  and  so  stridently,  of  the  opposite  sex. 
Bobby  would  have  had  Peter  avoid  it  altogether.  "  There 
are  some  young  idiots,"  he  said,  "  who  go  about  to  these 
literary  tea-parties.  They've  just  written  a  line  or  two 
somewhere  or  other,  and  they  go  curving  and  bending  all 
over  the  place.  Young  Tony  Gale  and  young  Robin 
Trojan  and  my  young  ass  of  a  brother  .  .  .  don't  want  you 
to  join  that  lot,  Peter,  my  boy.  The  women  like  to  have 
'em  of  course,  they're  useful  for  handing  the  cake  about 
but  that's  all  there  is  to  it  .  .  .  keep  out  of  it." 

But  Peter  had  not  had  so  many  friends  during  the  early 
part  of  his  life  that  he  could  afford  to  do  without  possible 
ones  now.  He  wanted  indeed  just  as  many  as  he  could 
grasp.  The  comfort  and  happiness  of  his  life  with  Bobby, 
the  success  of  the  book,  the  opening  of  a  career  in  front  of 
him,  these  things  had  made  of  him  another  creature.  He 
had  grown  ten  years  younger;  his  cheeks  were  bright,  his 
eye  clear,  his  step  buoyant.     He  moved  now  as  though  he 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  281 

loved  his  fellow  creatures.  One  felt,  on  his  entrance  into 
a  room,  that  the  air  was  clearer,  and  that  one  was  in  the 
company  of  a  human  being  who  found  the  world,  quite 
honestly  and  naturally,  a  delightful  place.  This  was  the 
first  effect  that  success  had  upon  Peter. 

And  indeed  they  met  him — all  of  them — ^with  open  arms. 
They  saw  in  him  that  burning  flame  that  those  who  have 
been  for  the  first  time  admitted  into  the  freemasonry  of 
their  Art  must  ever  show.  Afterwards  he  would  be  accus- 
tomed to  that  country,  would  know  its  roads  and  hills  and 
cities  and  would  be  perhaps  disappointed  that  they  were 
neither  as  holy  nor  as  eternal  as  he  had  once  imagined 
them  to  be — now  he  stood  on  the  hill's  edge  and  looked 
down  into  a  golden  landscape  whose  bounds  he  could  not 
discern.  But  they  met  him  too  on  the  personal  side.  The 
fact  that  he  had  been  found  starving  in  a  London  garret 
was  of  itself  a  wonderful  thing — then  he  had  in  his  man- 
ner a  rough,  awkward  charm  that  flattered  them  with  his 
youth  and  inexperience.  He  was  impetuous  and  confiden- 
tial and  then  suddenly  reserved  and  constrained.  But, 
above  it  all,  it  was  evident  that  he  wanted  friendliness  and 
good  fellowship.  He  took  every  one  at  the  value  that  they  \ 
offered  to  him.  He  first  encouraged  them  to  be  at  their  \ 
most  human  and  then  convinced  them  that  that  was  their 
natural  character.  He  lighted  every  one's  lamp  at  the 
flame  of  his  own  implicit  faith. 

These  ladies  and  gentlemen  put  very  plainly  before  him 
the  business  side  of  his  profession.  Their  conversation  was 
all  of  agents,  publishers,  the  sums  that  one  of  their  num- 
ber obtained  and  how  lucky  to  get  so  much  so  soon,  and 
the  sums  that  another  of  their  number  did  not  obtain  and 
what  a  shame  it  was  that  such  good  work  was  rewarded  by 
so  little.  It  was  all — this  conversation — in  the  most  gen- 
erous strain.  Jealousy  never  raised  its  head.  They  read 
— these  precious  people — the  works  of  one  another  with  an 
eager  praise  and  a  tender  condemnation  delightful  to  see. 
It  was  a  warm  bustling  society  that  received  Peter. 

These  tea-parties  and  fireside  discussions  had  not,  per- 
haps, been  always  so  friendly  and  large-hearted  but  in  the 
time  when  Peter  first  encountered  them  they  were  influ- 
enced   and    moulded    by    a    very    remarkable    woman — a 


«8«  FORTITUDE 

■woman  who  succeeded  in  combining  humour,  common 
sense  and  imagination  in  admirably  adjusted  qualities. 
Her  humour  made  her  tolerant,  her  common  sense  made  her 
wise,  and  her  imagination  made  her  tender — her  name  was 
Mrs.   Launce. 

She  was  short  and  broad,  with  large  blue  eyes  that  always, 
if  one  watched  them,  showed  her  thoughts  and  dispositions. 
/  Some  people  make  of  their  faces  a  disguise,  others  use 
«■  them  as  a  revelation — the  result  to  the  observer  is  very 
much  the  same  in  either  case.  But  with  Mrs.  Launce  there 
was  no  definite  attempt  at  either  one  thing  or  the  other — 
she  was  so  busily  engaged  in  the  matter  in  hand,  so  ab- 
sorbed and  interested,  that  the  things  that  her  face  might 
be  doing  never  occurred  to  her.  Her  hair  was  drawn  back 
and  parted  down  the  middle.  She  liked  to  wear  little  straw 
coal-scuttle  bonnets ;  she  was  very  fond  of  blue  silk,  and  her 
frocks  had  an  inclination  to  trail.  On  her  mother's  side 
she  was  French  and  on  her  father's  English;  from  her 
mother  she  got  the  technique  of  her  stories,  the  light- 
hearted  boldness  of  her  conversation  and  her  extraordinary 
devotion  to  her  family.  She  was  always  something  of  a 
puzzle  to  English  women  because  she  was  a  great  deal  more 
domestic  than  most  of  them  and  yet  bristled  with  theories 
about  morals  and  life  in  general  that  had  nothing  whatever 
in  common  with  domesticity.  Some  one  once  said  of  her 
that  "  she  was  a  hot  water  bottle  playing  at  being  a 
bomb.  .  .  ." 

She  belonged  to  all  the  London  worlds,  although  she 
found  perhaps  especial  pleasure  in  the  society  of  her  fellow 
writers.  This  was  largely  because  she  loved,  beyond  every- 
thing else,  the  business  side  of  her  profession.  There  was 
nothing  at  all  that  she  did  not  know  about  the  publishing 
and  distribution  of  a  novel.  Her  capacity  for  remembering 
other  people's  prices  was  prodigious  and  she  managed  her 
agent  and  her  publisher  with  a  deftness  that  left  them  gasp- 
ing. There  were  very  few  persons  in  her  world  who  had 
not,  at  one  time  or  another,  poured  their  troubles  into  her 
ear.     She  had  that  gift,  valuable  in  life  beyond  all  others,  I 

I  of  giving  herself  up  entirely  to  the  person  with  whom  she 
was  talking.  When  the  time  came  to  give  advice  the  com- 
bination of  her  common  sense  and  her  tenderness  made  her 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  ^83 

invaluable.  There  was  no  crime  black  enough,  no  deser- 
tion, no  cruelty  horrible  enough  to  outspeed  her  pity.  She 
hated  and  understood  the  sin  and  loved  and  comforted  the 
sinner.  With  a  wide  and  accurate  knowledge  of  humanity 
I  she  combined  a  deep  spiritual  belief  in  the  goodness  of  God. 
1  Everything,  however  horrible,  interested  her  .  .  .  she 
adored  life. 

This  little  person  in  the  straw  bonnet  and  the  blue  dress 
gave  Peter  something  that  he  had  never  known  before — 
she  mothered  him.  He  sat  next  to  her  at  some  dinner- 
party and  she  asked  him  to  come  and  have  tea  with  her. 
She  lived  in  a  little  street  in  Westminster  in  a  tiny  house 
that  had  her  children  on  the  top  floor,  a  beautiful  copy  of 
the  Monna  Lisa  and  a  very  untidy  writing-table  on  the  sec- 
ond, and  a  little  round  hall  and  a  tiny  dining-room  on  the 
ground  floor.  Her  husband  and  her  family — including  an 
adorable  child  of  two — were  all  as  amiable  as  possible. 

Peter  told  her  most  things  on  the  first  day  that  he  had 
tea  with  her  and  everything  on  the  second.  He  told  her 
about  his  boyhood — Treliss,  Scaw  House,  his  father, 
Stephen.  He  told  her  about  Brockett's  and  Bucket  Lane. 
He  told  her,  finally,  about  Clare  Rossiter. 

He  always  remembered  one  thing  that  she  said  at  this 
time.  They  were  sitting  at  her  open  window  looking  down 
into  the  blue  evening  that  is  in  Westminster  quieter  even 
than  it  is  at  Chelsea.  Behind  the  faint  green  cloud  of  trees 
the  Abbey's  huge  black  pile  soared  into  space. 

"You  think  you've  made  a  tremendous  break?"  she 
said. 

"  Yes — this  is  an  entirely  new  life — new  in  every  way. 
I  seem  too  to  be  set  amongst  an  entirely  new  crowd  of  peo- 
ple. The  division  seems  to  me  sharper  every  day.  I  be- 
lieve I've  left  it  all  behind." 

She  looked  at  him  sharply.  "  You're  afraid  of  all  that 
earlier  time,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  I  am." 

"  It  made  you  write  '  Reuben  Hallard.'  Perhaps  this  life 
here  in  London  .  .  ." 

"  It's  safer,"  he  caught  her  up. 
^    "  Don't,"    she    answered    him    very   gravely,    "  play    for 
/    safety^.__   It's  the  most^angerous  thing  in  the  world."     SIic 


t84  FORTITUDE 

paused  for  a  moment  and  then  added :  "  But  probably  they 
won't  let  you  alone." 

"  I  hope  to  God  they  will,"  he  cried. 


in 

He  saw  Clare  Rossiter  twice  during  this  time  and,  on 
each  occasion,  it  seemed  to  him  that  she  was  trying  to  make 
up  to  him  for  his  awkwardness  at  their  first  meeting.  On 
the  first  of  these  two  occasions  she  had  only  a  few  words 
with  him,  but  there  was  a  note  in  her  voice  that  he  fancied, 
wildly,  unreasonably,  was  different  from  the  tone  that  she 
used  to  other  people.  She  looked  so  beautiful  with  her 
golden  hair  coiled  above  her  head.  It  was  the  most  won- 
derful gold  that  he  had  ever  seen.  He  could  only,  in  his 
excitement,  think  of  marmalade  and  that  was  a  sticky  com- 
parison. "  The  Lady  with  the  Marmalade  Hair  " — how 
monstrous !  but  that  did  convey  the  colour.  Her  eyes 
seemed  darker  now  than  they  had  been  before  and  her 
cheeks  whiter.  The  curve  of  her  neck  was  so  wonderful 
that  it  hurt  him  physically.  He  wanted  so  terribly  to  kiss 
her  just  beneath  her  ear.  He  saw  how  he  would  do  it,  and 
that  he  would  have  to  move  away  some  of  the  shiny  hair 
that  strayed  like  sunlight  across  the  white  skin. 

She  did  not  seem  to  him  quite  so  tiny  when  she  smiled; 
it  was  exactly  as  water  ripples  when  the  sun  suddenly 
bursts  dark  clouds.  He  had  a  thousand  comparisons  for 
her,  and  then  sometimes  she  would  be,  as  it  were,  caught 
up  into  a  cloud  and  he  would  only  see  a  general  radiance 
and  be  blinded  by  the  light. 

He  wished  very  much  that  he  could  think  of  something 
else — something  other  than  marmalade — that  had  that  qual- 
ity of  gold.  He  often  imagined  what  it  would  be  like  when 
she  let  it  all  down — like  a  forest  of  autumn  trees — no,  that 
spoke  of  decay — like  the  sunlight  on  sand  towards  evening 
— like  the  fires  of  Walhalla  in  the  last  act  of  Gotterdam- 
merung — like  the  lights  of  some  harbour  seen  from  the 
farther  shore — like  clouds  that  are  ready  to  burst  with  even- 
ing sunlight.  Perhaps,  after  all,  amber  was  the  near- 
est ..  . 

"  Peter,  ask  Miss   Rossiter  if  she  will  have  some  more 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  385 

tea.  .  .  ."  Oh!  What  a  fool  he  is!  What  an  absolute 
ass! 

On  the  second  of  these  two  meetings  she  had  read  "  Reuben 
Hallard."  She  loved  it!  She  thought  it  astounding!  The 
most  wonderful  first  novel  she  had  ever  read.  How  had  he 
been  able  to  make  one  feel  Cornwall  so?  She  had  been 
once  to  Cornwall,  to  Mullion  and  it  had  been  just  like  that! 
Those  rocks !  it  was  like  a  poem !     And  then  so  exciting  I 

She  had  not  been  able  to  put  it  down  for  a  single  minute. 
"  Mother  was  furious  with  me  because  there  I  sat  until  I 
don't  know  how  early  in  the  morning  reading  it!  Oh!  Mr. 
Westcott,  how  wonderful  to  write  like  that!  " 

Her  praise  inflamed  him  like  wine.  He  looked  at  her 
with  exultation. 

"  Oh !  you  feel  like  that ! "  he  said,  drawing  a  great 
breath,  "  I  did  want  you  to  like  it  so !  "  He  was  enrap- 
tured— the  world  was  heaven!  He  did  not  realise  that 
some  young  woman  at  a  tea-party  the  day  before  had  said 
precisely  these  same  things  and  he  had  said :  "  Of  all  the 
affected  idiots !  "  .  .  . 


rv 

This  might  all  be  termed  a  period  of  preparation — that 
period  was  fixed  for  Peter  with  its  sign  and  seal  on  a  cer- 
tain evening  of  spring  when  an  enormous  orange  moon  was 
in  the  sky,  scents  were  in  all  the  Chelsea  gardens,  and  the 
Chelsea  streets  were  like  glass  in  the  silver  luminous  light. 

Peter  was  walking  home  after  a  party  at  the  Rossiters', 
It  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  been  invited  to  their 
house  and  it  had  been  a  great  success.  Dr.  Rossiter  was  a 
little  round  fat  man  with  snow-white  hair,  red  cheeks  and 
twinkling  eyes.  He  cured  his  patients  and  irritated  his 
relations  by  his  good  temperi.  Mrs.  Rossiter,  Peter 
thought,  had  a  great  resemblance  to  Bobby's  mother,  Mrs. 
Galleon,  senior.  They  were,  both  of  them,  massive  and 
phlegmatic.  They  had  both  acquired  that  solemn  dignity 
that  comes  of  living  up  to  one's  husband's  reputation. 
They  both  looked  on  their  families — Mrs.  Rossiter  on  Clare 
and  Mrs.  Galleon  on  Millicent,  Percival  and  Bobby — with 
curiosity,  tolerance  and  a  mild  sort  of  wonder.     They  wer<? 


SSe  FORTITUDE 

both  massively  happy  and  completely  unimaginative.  They^ 
•were,  indeed,  old  friends,  having  been  at  school  together, 
they  were  Emma  and  Jane  to  one  another  and  Mrs.  Rossiter 
could  never  forget  that  Mrs.  Galleon  came  to  school  two 
years  after  herself  and  was  therefore  junior  still;  whilst 
Mrs.  Galleon  had  stayed  two  years  longer  than  Mrs.  Rossi- 
ter, and  was  a  power  there  when  Mrs.  Rossiter  was  com- 
pletely forgotten;  they  were  fond  of  each  other  as  long  as 
they  were  allowed  to  patronise  one  another. 

Peter  had  spent  a  delicious  evening.  He  had  had  half 
an  hour  in  the  garden  with  Clare.  They  had  spoken  in  an 
tmdertone.  He  had  told  her  his  ambitions,  she  had  told 
him  her  aspirations.  Some  one  had  sung  in  the  garden  and 
there  had  been  one  wonderful  moment  when  Peter  had 
touched  her  hand  and  she  had  not  taken  it  away.  At  last 
they  were  both  silent  and  the  garden  flowed  about  them, 
on  every  side  of  them,  with  the  notes  and  threads  that  can 
only  be  heard  at  night. 

Mrs.  Rossiter,  heavily  and  solemnly,  brought  her  daughter 
a  shawl.  There  was  some  one  to  whom  she  would  like  to 
introduce  Mr.  Westcott.  Would  he  mind.^  Eden  was 
robbed  of  its  glories.  .  .  . 

But  he  had  had  enough.  He  thought  at  one  moment  that 
already  she  was  beginning  to  care  for  him,  and  at  another, 
that  a  lover's  fancy  made  signs  out  of  the  wind  and  portents 
out  of  the  running  water. 

But  he  was  happy  with  a  mighty  exultation,  and  then, 
as  he  turned  down  on  to  the  Embankment  and  felt  the  breeze 
from  the  river  as  it  came  towards  him,  he  met  Henry 
Galleon. 

The  old  man,  in  an  enormous  hat  that  was  like  a  top  hat 
only  round  at  the  brim  and  brown  in  colour,  was  trotting 
home.  He  saw  Peter  and  stopped.  He  spoke  to  him  in 
his  slow  tremendous  voice  and  the  words  seemed  to  go  on 
after  they  had  left  him,  rolling  along  the  Embankment. 

"  I  am  glad  to  sec  you,  Mr.  Westcott.  I  have  thought  that 
I  would  like  to  have  a  chat  with  you.  I  have  just  finished 
your  book." 

This  was  indeed  tremendous — that  Henry  Galleon  should 
have  read  "  Reuben  Hallard."     Peter  trembled  all  over. 

"  I  wonder  whether  you  would  care  to  come  and  have  a 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  287 

chat  with  me.  I  have  some  things  you  might  care  to  see. 
What  time  like  the  present?  It  is  early  hours  yet  and  you 
will  be  doing  an  old  man  who  sleeps  only  poorly  a  kind- 
ness." 

What  a  night  of  nights!  Peter,  trembling  with  excite- 
ment, felt  Henry  Galleon  put  his  arm  in  his,  felt  the  weight 
of  the  great  man's  body.  They  walked  slowly  along  and 
the  moon  and  the  stars  and  the  lights  on  the  river  and 
the  early  little  leaves  in  the  trees  and  the  stones  of  the 
houses  and  the  little  "  tish-tish  "  of  the  water  against  the 
Embankment  seemed  to  say — "Oh !  Peter  Westcott's  going 
to  have  a  chat  with  Henry  Galleon!  Did  you  ever  hear 
such  a  thing !  " 

Peter  was  sorry  that  his  Embankment  was  deserted  and 
that  there  was  no  one  to  see  them  go  into  the  house  together. 
He  drew  a  great  breath  as  the  door  closed  behind  them. 
The  house  was  large  and  dark  and  mysterious.  The  rest 
of  the  family  were  still  out  at  some  party.  Henry  Galleon 
drew  Peter  into  his  own  especial  quarters  and  soon  they 
were  sitting  in  a  lofty  library,  its  walls  covered  with  books 
that  stretched  to  the  ceiling.  Peter  meanwhile  buried  in 
a  huge  arm-chair  and  feeling  that  Henry  Galleon's  eyes 
were   piercing  him  through  and   through. 

The  old  man  talked  for  some  time  about  other  things — ■ 
talked  wonderfully  about  the  great  ones  of  the  earth  whom 
he  had  known,  the  great  things  that  he  had  seen.  It  was 
amazing  to  Peter  to  hear  the  gods  of  his  world  alluded  to 

as    "  poor    old    S poor    fellow !  .  .  .  Yes,    indeed.     I 

remember    his    coming    into    breakfast    one    day  .  .  ."    or 

"  You  were  asking  about  T Old  Wallie,  as  we  used 

to  call  him — poor  fellow,  poor  fellow — we  lived  together 
in  rooms  for  some  time.  That  was  before  I  married — • 
and  perilously,  dangerously — I  might  almost  say  magnif- 
icently near  starvation  we  were  too.  .  .  ." 

Peter  already  inflamed  with  that  earlier  half-hour  in  the 
garden  now  breathed  a  portentous  air.  He  was  with  the 
Gods  .  .  .  there  on  the  Olympian  heights  he  drank  with 
them,  he  sang  songs  with  them,  with  mighty  voices  they 
applauded  "  Reuben  Hallard."  He  drank  in  his  excitement 
many  whiskies  and  sodas  and  soon  the  white  room  with  its 
books  was  like  the  inside  of  a  golden  shell.     The  old  man 


288  FORTITUDE 

opposite  him  grew  in  size — his  face  was  evtr  larger  and 
larger,  his  shirt  front  bulged  and  bulged — his  hand  raised 
to  emphasise  some  point  was  tremendous  as  the  hand  of  a 
God.  Peter  felt  that  he  himself  was  growing  smaller  and 
smaller,  would  soon,  in  the  depths  of  that  mighty  arm-chair 
disappear  altogether  but  that  opposite  him  two  mighty  burn- 
ing eyes  held  him.  And  always  like  thunder  the  voice 
rolled  on.  ..."  My  son  tells  me  that  this  book  of  yours 
is  a  success  .  .  .  that  they  are  emptying  their  purses  to 
fill  yours.  That  may  be  a  dangerous  thing  for  you.  I  have 
read  your  book,  it  has  many  faults;  it  is  not  written  at  all 
—it  is  loose  and  lacking  in  all  construction.  You  know 
nothing,  as  yet,  about  life — you  do  not  know  what  to  use 
or  what  to  reject  But  the  Spirit  is  there,  the  right  Spirit. 
It  is  a  little  flame — it  will  be  very  easily  quenched  and 
nothing  can  kill  it  so  easily  as  success — guard  it,  my  son, 
guard  it." 

Peter  felt  as  Siegfried  must  have  felt  when  confronted 
by  Wotan. 

His  poor  little  book  was  dwindling  now  before  his  eyes. 
He  was  conscious  of  a  great  despair.  How  useless  of  him 
to  attempt  so  impossible  a  task.  .  .  . 

The  voice  rolled  on: 

"  I  am  an  old  man  now  and  only  twice  before  in  my  time 
have  I  seen  that  spirit  in  a  young  man's  eyes.  You  may 
remember  now  an  old  man's  words — for  I  would  urge  you, 
I  would  implore  you  to  keep  nothing  before  you  but  the 
one  thing  that  can  bring  Life  into  Art.  I  will  not  speak 
to  you  of  the  sacredness  of  your  calling.  Many  will  laugh 
at  you  and  tell  you  tliat  it  is  pretentious  to  name  it  so. 
Others  will  come  to  you  and  will  advise  liow  this  is  to  be 
done  and  that  is  to  be  done.  Others  will  talk  to  you  of 
schools,  they  will  tell  you  that  once  it  was  in  that  manner 
and  that  now  it  is  in  this  manner.  Some  will  tell  you  that 
you  have  no  style — others  will  tell  you  that  you  have  too 
much.  Some  again  will  tempt  you  with  money  and  money 
is  not  to  be  despised.  Again  you  will  be  tested  with  pho- 
tographs and  paragraphs,  with  lectures  and  public  dinners. 
.  .  .  Worst  of  all  there  will  come  to  you  terrible  hours 
when  you  yourself  know  of  a  sure  certainty  that  your  work 
is  worthless.     In  your  middle  age  a  great  barrenness  will 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  289 

come  upon  you.  You  have  been  a  little  teller  of  little  tales, 
and  on  every  side  of  you  there  will  be  others  who  have 
striven  for  other  prizes  and  have  won  them.  Sitting  alone 
in  your  room  with  your  poor  strands  of  coloured  silk  that 
had  once  been  intended  to  make  so  beautiful  a  pattern, 
poor  boy,  you  will  know  that  you  have  failed.  That  will  be 
a  very  dreadful  hour — the  only  power  that  can  meet  it  is  a 
blind  and  deaf  courage.  Courage  is  the  only  thing  that  we  / 
are  here  to  show  .  .  .  the  hour  will  pass." 

The  old  man  paused.  There  was  a  silence.  Then  he 
said  very  slowly  as  though  he  were  drawing  in  front  of  him 
the  earliest  histories  of  his  own  past  life  .  .  . 

"  Against  all  these  temptations,  against  these  voices  of 
the  World  and  the  Flesh,  against  the  glory  of  power  and 
the  swinging  hammer  of  success,  you,  sitting  quietly  in 
your  room,  must  remember  that  a  great  charge  has  been 
given  you,  that  you  are  here  for  one  thing  and  one  thing 
only  ...  to  listen.  The  whole  duty  of  Art  is  listening 
for  the  voice  of  God. 

"  I  am  not  speaking  in  phrases.  I  am  not  pressing  upon 
you  any  sensational  discoveries,  but  here  at  the  end  of  my 
long  life,  I,  with  all  the  things  that  I  meant  to  do  and  have 
failed  to  do  heavy  upon  me,  can  give  you  only  this  one 
word.  I  have  hurried,  I  have  scrambled,  I  have  fought  and 
cursed  and  striven,  but  as  an  Artist  only  those  hours  that 
I  have  spent  listening,  waiting,  have  been  my  real  life. 

"  So    it    must    be    with    you.     You    are    here    to    listen. 

Never  mind  if  they  tell  you  that  story-telling  is  a  cheap 

thing,  a  popular  thing,  a  mean  thing.     It  is  the  instrument 

jthat  is  given  to  you  and  if,  when  you  come  to  die  you  know  i 

'that,  for  brief  moments,  you  have  heard,  and  that  what  you  / 

/'have  heard  you  have  written.  Life  has  been  justified. 

"  Nothing  else  can  console  you,  nothing  else  can  comfort 
,  you.     There  must  be  restraint,  austerity,  discipline — words 
must  come  to  you  easily  but  only  because  life  has  come  to 
'     you  with  so  great  a  pain  .  .   .  the  Artist's  life  is  the  harsh-  y* 
/est  that  God  can  give  to  a  man.     Make  no  mistake  about  . 
/  that.     Fortitude     is     the     artist's     only     weapon     of     de-  ^ 
h  fence  ..."  / 

^       Henry  Galleon  came  over  to  Peter's  chair  and  put  his 
hand  upon  the  boy's  arm. 


«90  FORTITUDE 

"  I  am  at  the  end  of  my  work.  I  have  done  what  I  can. 
You  are  at  the  beginning  of  yours.  You  will  do  what  you 
can.     I  wish  you  good  fortune." 

A  vision  came  to  Peter.  Through  the  open  window, 
against  the  sheet  of  stars,  gigantic,  was  the  Rider  on  the 
Lion. 

He  could  not  see  the  Rider's  face. 

A  great  exultation  inflamed  him. 

At  that  instant  he  was  stripped  bare.  His  history,  the 
people  whom  he  knew,  the  things  that  he  had  done,  they 
were  all  as  though  they  had  never  been. 

His  soul  was,  for  that  great  moment,  naked  and  alone 
before  God.  v 

"  The  whole  duty  of  Art  is  listening  for  the  voice  of  ) 

God.  ..."  y 

A  sound,  as  though  it  came  to  him  from  another  world, 
broke  into  the  room. 

There  were  voices  and  steps  on  the  stairs. 

"  Ah,  they  are  back  from  their  party,"  Henry  Galleon 
said,  trotting  happily  to  the  door.  "  Come  up  and  have  a 
chat  with  my  wife,  Westcott,  before  going  to  bed." 


CHAPTER  III 
THE  ENCOUNTER 


PETER  was  now  the  young  man  of  the  moment.  He 
took  this  elevation  with  frank  delight,  was  encouraged 
by  it,  gave  it  all  rather  more,  perhaps,  than  its  actual  value, 
began  a  new  novel,  "  The  Stone  House,"  started  weekly  re- 
viewing on  The  Interpreter  and  yielded  himself  up  entirely 
to  Clare  Rossiter. 

He  had  been  in  love  with  her  ever  since  that  first  day  at 
Norah  Monogue's,  but  the  way  that  she  gradually  now 
absorbed  him  was  like  nothing  so  much  as  the  slow  cover- 
ing of  the  rocks  and  the  sand  by  the  incoming  tide.  At 
first,  in  those  days  at  Brockett's,  she  had  seemed  to  him 
something  mysterious,  intangible,  holy.  But  after  that 
meeting  in  Cheyne  Walk  he  knew  her  for  a  prize  that  some 
fortunate  man  might,  one  day,  win.  He  did  not,  for  an 
instant,  suppose  that  he  could  ever  be  that  one,  but  the 
mere  imagined  picture  of  what  some  other  would  one  day 
have,  sent  the  blood  rushing  through  him.  Her  holiness 
for  him  was  still  intact  but  for  another  there  would  be  hu- 
man, earthly  wonders. 

Then,  curiously,  as  he  met  her  more  often  and  knew  her 
better  there  came  a  certain  easy,  almost  casual,  intercourse. 
One  Clare  Rossiter  still  reigned  amongst  the  clouds,  but 
there  was  now  too  another  easy,  fascinating,  humorous  crea- 
ture who  treated  him  almost  like  Alice  Galleon  herself — • 
laughed  at  him,  teased  him,  provoked  him  .  .  .  suddenly, 
like  a  shadow  across  a  screen,  would  slip  away;  and  he  be 
on  his  knees  again  before  something  that  was  only  to  be 
worshipped. 

These  two  shapes  of  her  crossed  and  were  confused  and 
again  were  parted.  His  thoughts  were  first  worshipping 
in  heaven,  then  dwelling  with  delight  on  witty,  charming 
things  that  she  had  said. 

991 


292  FORTITUDE 

For  that  man,  when  he  came,  there  would  be  a  most 
■wonderful  treasure. 

Peter  now  lost  his  appetite.  He  could  not  sleep  at 
night.  He  would  slip  out  of  his  room,  cross  the  silent 
Chelsea  streets  and  watch  her  dark  window.  He  culti- 
vated Mrs.  Rossiter  and  that  massive  and  complacent  lady 
took  it  entirely  to  herself.  Indeed,  nothing,  at  this  time 
was  more  remarkable  than  the  little  stir  that  Peter's  devo- 
tion caused.  It  was  perhaps  that  Clare  had  always  had  a 
cloud  of  young  men  about  her,  perhaps  that  Peter  was 
thought  to  be  having  too  wonderful  a  time,  just  now,  to  be 
falling  in  love  as  well — that  would  be  piling  Life  on  to 
Life!  ...  no  one  could  live  under  it. 

Besides  Mrs.  Rossiter  liked  him  ...  he  was  amazing, 
you  see  .  .  .  people  said  .  .  . 

And  the  next  stage  arrived. 

One  May  evening,  at  the  Galleons'  house,  when  some 
one  was  playing  the  piano  and  all  the  world  seemed  to  be 
sitting  in  corners  Clare's  hand  lay  suddenly  against  his. 
The  smooth  outer  curve  of  his  hand  lay  against  her  palm. 
Their  little  fingers  touched.  Sheets  of  fire  rose,  inflamed 
him  and  fell  .  .  .  rose  again  and  fell.  His  hand  began  to 
shake,  her  hand  began  to  shake.  He  heard,  a  thousand 
miles  away,  some  one  singing  about  "  the  morn." 

Their  hands  parted.  She  rose  and  slowly,  her  white 
dress  and  red-gold  hair  flung  against  a  background  that 
seemed  to  him  black  and  infinite,  crossed  the  room. 

That  trembling  of  her  hand  had  maddened  him.  It  sud- 
denly showed  him  that  he — as  well  as  another — might  run 
the  race  for  her.  Everything  that  he  had  ever  done  or 
been — his  sentiments,  his  grossnesses,  his  restraints  and  his 
rebellions — were  now  concerned  in  this  pursuit.  No  other 
human  being — Stephen,  Norah  Monogue,  Bobby,  Alice — 
now  had  any  interest  for  him.  His  reviews  were  written 
he  knew  not  how,  the  editions  of  "  Reuben  Hallard  "  might 
run  into  the  gross  for  all  he  cared,  "  The  Stone  House  "  lay 
neglected. 

And  he  avoided  seeing  her.  He  was  afraid  to  spoil  that 
moment  when  her  hand  had  shaken  at  the  touch  of  his,  and 
yet  he  was  tormented  by  the  longing  for  a  new  meeting  that 
might  provide   Rome   new   amazement.     Perhaps   he   would 


THE  ROUNDABOUT 

hold  her  hand  and  feel  the  shadow  of  her  body  bending  to- 
wards his  own!  And  his  heart  stopped  beating;  and  he 
was  suddenly  cold  with  a  splendid  terror. 

Then  he  did  meet  her  again  and  had  nothing  to  say.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  she  was  frightened.  He  came  home 
that  day  in  a  cold  fog  of  miserable  despair.  A  letter  from 
his  pubhshers  informing  him  of  a  tenth  edition  was  of 
ironical  miimportance.  He  lay  awake  all  night  restlessly 
unhappy. 

For  the  first  time  for  many  months  the  old  shadows 
stole  out  into  the  room — the  black  bulk  of  Scaw  House — 
the  trees,  the  windows,  his  father.  .  .  , 

And  to  him,  tossing  on  his  bed  there  came  thoughts  of  a 
certain  house  in  the  town.  He  could  get  up  and  dress  now 
—a  cab  would  soon  take  him  there  ...  in  the  early  morn- 
ing he  could  slink  back. 

Clare  did  not  want  him!  A  fool  to  fancy  that  she  had 
ever  cared. 

He,  Peter  Westcott,  nobody!  Why  then  should  he  not 
have  his  adventures,  he  still  so  young  and  vigorous.''  He 
would  go  to  that  house.  .  .  . 

And  then,  almost  reluctantly,  as  he  sat  up  in  bed  and 
watched  the  grey,  shadowy  walls,  Stephen  seemed  to  be 
visible  to  him — Stephen,  walking  the  road,  starting  early 
in  the  fresh  air  when  the  light  was  breaking  and  the  scent 
of  the  grass  was  cool  and  filled  with  dew. 

He  would  write  to  Stephen  in  the  morning — ^he  lay  down 
and  went  to  sleep. 

By  this  time,  meanwhile,  Alice  and  Bobby  had  noticed. 
Alice,  indeed,  had  a  number  of  young  men  over  whose  emo- 
tions she  kept  guard  and  Peter  had  become,  during  these 
weeks,  very  valuable  to  her.  .  .  . 

She  did  not  want  him  to  marry  anybody — especially  she 
did  not  want  him  to  marry  Clare.  At  breakfast,  past 
Peter's  ears,  as  though  he  were  not  concerned  at  all,  she 
talked  to  Bobby — 

"  Really,  Dr.  Rossiter  spoils  Clare  beyond  all  bounds — " 

"Um?" 

"  He's  taking  her  with  him  up  to  Glasgow  to  that  Con- 
gress thing.  He  knows  perfectiy  well  that  she  ought  to 
stay  with  Mrs.  Rossiter — and  so  does  she." 


«94  FORTITUDE 

"Well,  it's  no  business  of  ours — "  Bobby's  nsnal  tol- 
erant complacency. 

"  It  is.  Clare  might  be  a  fine  creature  if  she  didn't  let 
herself  be  spoiled  in  this  way.  She's  perpetually  selfish 
and  she  ought  to  be  told  so." 

"  We're  all  perpetually  selfish,"  said  Bobby  who  began 
to  be  sorry  for  Peter. 

"  Oh!  no,  we're  not.  I'm  very  fond  of  Clare  but  I  don't 
envy  the  man  who  marries  her.  There's  no  one  in  the 
world  more  delightful  when  she  has  her  own  way  and 
things  go  smoothly,  but  they've  wrapped  her  up  in  cotton 
wool  to  such  an  extent  that  she  simply  doesn't  know  how 
to  live  out  of  it.     She's  positively  terrified  of  Life." 

This,  as  Alice  had  intended,  was  too  much  for  Peter. 
He  burst  out — 

"  I  think  Miss  Rossiter's  the  pluckiest  girl  I've  ever  met. 
She's  afraid  of  nothing." 

"  Except  of  being  uncomfortable,"  Alice  retorted. 
"  That  frightens  her  into  fits.  Make  her  uncomfortable, 
Peter,  and  you'll  see — " 

And,  red  in  the  face,  Peter  answered — "  I  don't  think 
you  ought  to  talk  of  any  one  who's  so  fond  of  you  behind 
her  back  in  that  way — " 

"Oh!  I  say  just  the  same  to  her  face.  I'm  always 
telling  her  these  things  and  she  always  agrees  and  then's 
just  as  selfish  as  ever.  That  absurd  little  father  of  hers 
has  spoilt  her !  " 

Spoilt!  Clare  spoilt!  Peter  smiled  darkly.  Alice  Gal- 
leon— delightful  woman  though  she  was,  of  course  couldn't 
endure  that  another  woman  should  receive  such  praise — 
Jealousy !     Ah !  .  .  . 

And  the  aged  and  weighty  author  of  "  Reuben  Hallard," 
to  whom  the  world  was  naturally  an  open  book,  and  life 
known  to  its  foundations,  nodded  to  himself.     How  people,  \ 
intelligent  enough  in  other  ways,  could  be  so  short-sighted !    ) 

Afterwards,  when  they  were  alone,  Bobby  took  him  in 
hand — 

"  You're  in  love  with  Clare  Rossiter,  Peter,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  I  am,"  Peter  answered  defiantly. 

"  But  you've  known  her  so  short  a  time !  " 

"^Vhat•8  that  to  do  with  it?" 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  £95 

"  Oh,  nothing,  of  course.  But  do  you  think  you're  the 
sort  of  people  likely  to  get  on  ?  " 

"  Really,  Bobby,  I  don't—" 

"  I  know — none  of  my  business — quite  true.  But  you 
see  I've  known  Clare  pretty  well  all  my  life  and  you're  the 
best  friend  I've  got,  so  you  might  allow  me  to  take  an  in- 
terest." 

"  Well,  say  what  you  like." 

"  Nothing  to  say  except  that  Clare  isn't  altogether  an 
easy  problem.  You're  like  all  the  other  fellows  I  know — 
think  because  Clare's  got  red  hair  and  laughs  easily  she's 
a  goddess — she  isn't,  not  a  bit!  She's  got  magnificent 
qualities  and  one  day  perhaps,  when  she's  had  a  thoroughly 
bad  time,  she'll  show  one  the  kind  of  things  she's  made  of. 
But  she's  an  only  child,  she's  been  spoilt  all  her  life  and 
the  moment  she  begins  to  be  unhappy  she's  impossible." 

"  She  shan't  ever  be  unhappy  if  I  can  help  it !  "  mut- 
tered Peter  fiercely. 

Bobby  laughed.  "  You'll  do  your  best  of  course,  but 
are  you  the  sort  of  man  for  her?  She  wants  some  one 
who'll  give  her  every  kind  of  comfort,  moral,  physical  and 
intellectual.  She  wants  somebody  who'll  accept  her  en- 
thusiasms as  genuine  intelligence.  You'll  find  her  out  in- 
tellectually in  a  week.  Then  she  wants  some  one  who'll 
give  her  his  whole  attention.  You  think  now  that  you  wiU 
but  you  won't — you  can't — you're  not  made  that  way.  By 
temperament  and  trade  you're  an  artist.  She  thinks,  at 
the  moment,  that  an  artist  would  suit  her  very  well;  but,  in 
reality,  my  boy,  he's  the  very  last  sort  of  person  she  ought 
to  marry." 

Peter  caught  at  Bobby's  words.  "  Do  you  really  think 
she  cares  about  me  ?  " 

"  She's  interested.  Clare  spends  her  days  in  successive 
enthusiasms.  She's  always  being  enthusiastic — dreadful 
disillusions  in  between  the  heights.  Mind  you,  there's  an- 
other side  of  Clare — a  splendid  side,  but  it  wants  very  care- 
ful management  and  I  don't  know,  Peter,  that  you're  ex- 
actly the  sort  of  person — " 

"  Thanks  very  much,"  said  Peter  grimly. 

"  No,  but  you're  not — you  don't,  in  the  least,  see  her  aa 
she  is,  and  she  doesn't  see  you  as  you  are — hence  these  mia- 


«96  FORTITUDE 

guided   attempts   on   my   part   to   show  you  one  another." 

But  Peter  had  not  been  listening. 

"  Do  you  really  think,"  he  muttered,  "  that  she  cares 
about  me  ?  " 

Bobby  looked  at  him,  laughed  and  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders in  despair. 

"  Ah !  I  see — it's  no  use,"  he  said,  "  poor  dear  Peter 
— well,  I  wish  you  luck !  " 

And  that  was  the  end  as  far  as  Alice  and  Bobby  were 
concerned.  They  never  alluded  to  it  again  and  indeed  now 
seemed  to  favour  meetings   between   Clare  and   Peter. 

And  now,  through  these  wonderful  Spring  weeks,  these 
two  were  continually  together.  The  Galleons  had,  at  first, 
been  inclined  to  consider  Clare's  obvious  preference  for 
Peter  as  the  simplest  desire  to  be  part  of  a  general  rather 
heady  enthusiasm.  "  Clare  loves  little  movements.  .  .  ." 
And  Peter,  throughout  this  Spring  was  a  little  movement. 
The  weeks  went  on,  and  Clare  was  not  herself — silent,  ab- 
sorbed, almost  morose.  One  day  she  asked  Alice  Galleon 
a  number  of  questions  about  Peter,  and,  after  that,  reso- 
lutely avoided  speaking  of  him.  "  Of  course,"  Alice  said 
to  Bobby — "  Dr.  Rossiter  will  let  her  marry  any  one  she 
likes.  She'll  have  plenty  of  money  and  Peter's  going  to 
have  a  great  career.     After  all  it  may  be  the  best  thing." 

Bobby  shook  his  head.     "  They're  both  egoists,"  he  said. 
'*  Peter     because     he's     never    had     anything    he     wanted  \ 
and    Clare    because    she's    always    had    everything  ...  it  1 
won't  do."  ' 

But,  after  all,  when  May  gave  place  to  burning  June, 
Bobby  and  Alice  were  inevitably  drawn  into  that  romance. 
They  yielded  to  an  atmosphere  that  both,  by  temperament, 
were  too  sentimental  to  resist. 

Nearer  and  nearer  was  coming  that  intoxicating  moment 
of  Peter's  final  plunge,  and  Clare — beautiful,  these  weeks, 
with  all  the  excitement  of  the  wonderful  episode — saw  him 
as  a  young  god  who  had  leapt  upon  a  submissive  London 
and  conquered  it. 

Mrs.  Rossiter  and  Mrs.  Galleon  played  waiting  chorus. 
Mrs.  Launce  from  her  little  house  in  Westminster,  was,  as 
usual,  glowing  with  a  piece  of  other  people's  happiness. 
Bobby  and  Alice  had  surrendered  to  the  atmosphere.     All 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  297 

were,  of  course,  silent — until  the  word  is  spoken  no  move- 
ment must  be  made — the  little  god  is  so  easily  alarmed. 

At  last  towards  the  close  of  this  hot  June,  Mrs.  Laimce 
proposed  to  Clare  a  week-end  at  her  Sussex  cottage  by  the 
sea.  She  also  told  Peter  that  she  could  put  him  up  if  he 
chose  to  come  down  at  the  same  time.  What  could  be  more 
delightful  in  this  weather.'' 

"  Dear  Clare,  only  the  tiniest  cottage  as  you  know — no 
on?  else  unless  Peter  Westcott  happens  to  come  down — I 
suggested  it,  and  you  can  see  the  sea  from  your  window 
and  there's  a  common  and  a  donkey,  and  you  can  roll  in 
the  sand — "  Mrs.  Launce,  when  she  was  very  happy  be- 
trayed her  French  descent  by  the  delightful  way  that  she 
rolled  her  r's. 

"  Not  a  soul  anywhere  near — ^we  can  bathe  all  day." 

Clare  would  love  to  come — so  strangely  enough  would 
Peter — "  The  5.30  train  then — Saturday.  .  .  ."  Dear 
Mrs.  Launce  in  her  bonnet  and  blue  silk!  Clare  had  never 
thought  her  so  entirely  delightful! 

Peter,  of  course,  plainly  understood  the  things  that  dear 
Mrs.  Launce  intended.  His  confidence  in  her  had  been,  in 
no  way,  misplaced — she  loved  a  wedding  and  was  the  only 
person  in  the  world  who  could  bring  to  its  making  so  fine 
a  compound  of  sentiment  and  common  sense.  She  frankly 
loved  it  all  and  though,  at  the  moment,  occupied  with  the 
work  of  at  least  a  dozen  women,  and  with  a  family  that 
needed  her  most  earnest  care,  she  hastened  to  assist  the 
Idyll. 

Peter's  own  feelings  were  curiously  confused.  He  was 
going  to  propose  to  Clare;  and  now  he  seemed  to  face, 
suddenly,  the  change  that  this  must  mean  to  him.  Those 
earlier  months,  when  it  had  been  pursuit  with  no  certainty 
of  capture  had  only  shown  him  one  thing  desirable — Clare. 
But  now  that  he  was  face  to  face  with  it  he  was  frightened 
— what  did  he  know  of  women.'*  .  .  . 

On  the  morning  they  were  to  go  down,  he  sat  in  his 
room,  this  terrible  question  confronting  him.  No,  he  knew 
nothing  about  women!  He  had  left  his  heroine  very  much 
alone  in  "  Reuben  Hallard  "  and  those  occasions  when  he  had 
been  obliged  to  bring  her  on  the  stage  had  not  been  too 
successful.     He  knew  nothing  about  women! 


5»8  FORTITUDE 

Tliere  would  be  things — a  great  many — as  a  married 
man,  he  would  have  to  change.  Sometimes  he  was  moody 
for  days  together  and  wanted  to  see  no  one.  Sometimes 
he  was  so  completely  absorbed  by  his  work  that  the  real 
people  around  him  were  shadows  and  wraiths.  These  moods 
must  vanish.  Clare  must  always  find  him  ready  and 
cheerful  and  happy. 

A  dreadful  sense  of  inadequacy  weighed  upon  Peter. 
And  then  at  the  concrete  fact  of  her  actual  presence,  at 
the  thought  of  her  standing  there,  waiting  for  him,  want- 
ing him,  his  doubts  left  him  and  he  was  wildly,  madly 
happy. 

And  yet,  before  he  left  the  room,  his  glance  fell  on  his 
writing-table.  White  against  its  shining  surface  lay  a 
paper  and  on  the  top  sheet,  written :  "  The  Stone  House  " ;  a 
Novel;  Chapter  II.  Months  ago — he  had  not  touched  it 
all  these  last  weeks,  and,  at  this  moment  he  felt  he  would 
never  write  anything  again.  He  turned  away  with  a  little 
movement  of  irritation.  .  .  . 

That  morning  he  went  formally  to  Dr.  Rossiter.  The 
little  man  received  him,  smiling. 

"  I  want  to  marry  your  daughter,  sir,"  said  Peter. 

"  You're  very  young,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"  Twenty-six,"  said  Peter. 

"  Well,  if  she'll  have  you  I  won't  stand  in  your  way — ** 

Peter  took  the  5.30  train.  .  .  . 

n 

Mrs.  Launce,  on  Sunday  afternoon,  from  the  door  of  her 
cottage,  watched  them  both  strike  across  the  common  to- 
wards the  sea — Peter,  "  stocky,"  walking  as  though  no 
force  on  earth  could  upset  his  self-possession  and  sturdy 
balance,  Clare  with  her  little  body  and  easy  movement 
meant  for  this  air  and  sea  and  springing  turf.  Mrs. 
Launce  having  three  magnificent  children  of  her  own  be- 
lieved in  the  science  of  Eugenics  heart  and  soul.  Here, 
before  her  eyes,  was  the  right  and  proper  Union — talk  about 
souls  and  spirit  and  temperament — important  enough  for 
the  immediate  Two — but  give  Nature  flesh  and  bones,  with 
cleanliness  and  a  good  straight  stock  to  work  on,  and  see 
what  She  will  do! 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  299 

Mrs.  Launce  went  into  the  cottage  again  and  prepared 
herself  for  an  announcement  at  tea-time.  She  wiped  her 
eyes  before  she  settled  down  to  her  work.  Loving  both 
of  them  the  thought  of  their  happiness  hung  about  her  all 
the  afternoon  and  made  her  very  tender  and  forgiving 
when  the  little  parlourmaid  arrived  with  a  piece  of  the 
blue  and  white  china  smashed  to  atoms.  "  I  can't  think 
'ow  it  'appened.  Mum.     I  was  just  standing.  .  .  ." 

Peter  and  Clare,  crossing  the  common,  beheld  the  sea  at 
their  feet.  It  was  a  hot  misty  afternoon  and  only  the  thin 
white  line  of  tiny  curling  waves  crept  out  of  the  haze  on  to 
the  gleaming  yellow  sand.  Behind  them,  on  every  side 
was  common  and  the  only  habitation,  a  small  cottage  nearly 
hidden  by  a  black  belt  of  trees,  on  their  right.  These 
black,  painted  trees  lay  like  a  blot  of  ink  against  the  blue 
sky. 

Sitting  down  on  the  edge  of  the  common  they  looked 
on  to  the  yellow  sand.  The  air  was  remorselessly  still  as 
though  the  world  were  cased  in  iron;  somewhere  deep  within 
its  silence,  its  heart  might  yet  be  beating,  but  the  depths 
hid  its  reverberation. 

Peter  lay  flat  on  his  back  and  instantly  his  world  was 
full  of  clamour.  All  about  him  insects  were  stirring,  the 
thin  stiff  blades  of  grass  were  very  faintly  rustling,  a  tiny 
blue  butterfly  flew  up  from  the  soil  into  the  bright  air — some 
creature  sang  a  little  song  that  sounded  like  the  faint 
melody  of  a  spinet. 

"  All  praising  the  Lord,  I  suppose — "  Peter  listened. 
"  Hymn  and  glory  songs  and  all  the  rest — " 

Then,  clashing,  out  of  the  heart  of  the  sky,  the  thought 
followed.  "  There  must  be  a  God  " — the  tinkling  insect 
told  him  so. 

He  gazed  into  the  great  sheet  of  blue  above  him,  so 
remote,  so  cruel  .  .  .  and  yet  the  tiny  blue  butterfly  flew, 
without  fear,  into  its  very  heart. 

Peter's  soul  was  drawn  up.  He  swung,  he  flew,  he  fled. 
.  .  .  Down  below,  there  on  the  hard,  brown  soil  his  body 
lay — dust  to  the  dust — there,  dead  amongst  the  singing  in- 
sects. .  .  .  He  looked  down,  from  his  great  heights  and 
saw  his  body,  with  its  red  face  and  its  suit  of  blue  and  its 
up-turned   boots,   and  here,  in   freedom   his   Soul  exulted! 


800  FORTITUDE 

"  Of  course  there  is  a  God !  " 

They  are  praising  him  down  there — ^the  ground  is  cov- 
ered with  creatures  that  are  praising  Him.  Peter  buried 
his  eyes  and  instantly  his  soul  came  swinging  down  to  him, 
found  his  body  again,  filled  once  more  his  veins  with  life 
and  sound.  After  a  vast  silence  he  could  hear,  once  more, 
the  life  amongst  the  grass,  the  faint  rustle  of  the  thin  line 
of  foam  beneath  him,  and  could  smell  the  earth  and  the 
scent  of  the  seaweed  borne  up  to  them  from  the  sand. 

"  It's  so  still,"  he  said  suddenly,  "  that  it's  almost  like 
thunder.  There'll  be  a  storm  later.  On  a  day  like  this 
in  Cornwall  you  would  hear  the  sound  of  the  Mining 
Stamps  for  miles — " 

"  Well,"  she  answered,  "  I  am  glad  we're  not  in  Corn- 
wall—I  hate  it." 

"Hate  it!" 

"  Yes.  That  sounds  horrible  to  you,  I  suppose,  and  I'm 
quite  ready  to  admit  that  it's  my  cowardice.  Cornwall 
frightens  me.  When  I  was  there  as  a  tiny  girl  it  was  just 
the  same.     I  always  hated  it." 

"  I  don't  believe  you're  ever  frightened  at  anything." 

"  I  am.  I'm  under  such  a  disadvantage,  you  see.  If 
I'd  been  white-faced  and  haggard  every  one  would  have 
thought  it  quite  natural  that  I  should  scream  if  I  were  left 
in  the  dark  or  hate  being  left  alone  with  those  horrible 
black  rocks  that  Cornwall's  so  full  of,  but  just  because  I'm 
healthy  and  was  taught  to  hold  my  back  up  at  school  I 
have  to  pretend  to  a  bravery  that  simply  doesn't  exist — " 

He  rejected,  for  the  moment  the  last  part  of  her  sentence. 
"  Oh,  but  I  understand  perfectly  what  you  mean  by  your 
fear  of  Cornwall.  Of  course  I  understand  it  although  I 
love  the  place  with  all  my  soul  and  body.  But  it  is  terri- 
fying— almost  the  only  terrifying  place  that  civilisation 
has  left  to  us — Central  Africa  is  nothing  to  it — " 

"Are  you  afraid  of  it?"  she  said,  looking  at  him  in- 
tently. 

"  Tremendously — because  I  suppose  it  won't  let  me  alone. 
It's  di£Bcult  to  put  into  words,  but  I  think  what  I  mean  is 
that  I  want  to  go  on  now  in  London,  writing  and  seeing 
people  and  being  happy  and  it's  pulling  at  me  all  the 
time." 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  SOI 

"What  way  pulling  at  you?" 

"  I  can't  get  out  of  my  head  all  the  things  I  did  when  I 
was  a  boy  there.  I  wasn't  very  happy,  you  know.  I've 
told  you  something  about  it.  ...  I  want  to  go  back.  .  .  . 
I  want  to  go  back.  I  mustn't,  but  I  want  to  go  back — 
and  it  hurts — " 

He  seemed  to  have  forgotten  her — he  stared  out  to  sea, 
his  hands  holding  the  grass  in  either  side  of  him. 

She  moved  and  the  sound  suddenly  brought  him  back. 
He  turned  to  her  laughing. 

"  Sorry.  I  was  thinking  about  things.  That  cottage 
over  there  with  the  black  trees  reminded  me  of  Scaw 
House  a  little.  .  .  .  But  it's  all  right  really.  I  suppose 
every  fellow  has  the  wild  side  and  the  sober  side,  and  I've 
had  such  a  rum  life  and  been  civilised  so  short  a  time.  .  .  ." 

She  said  slowly:  "I  think  I  know  what  you  mean, 
though.  I  know  enough  of  it  to  be  frightened  of  it — I 
don't  want  life  to  be  like  that.  I  don't  suppose  I've  got 
imagination.  I  want  it  to  be  orderly  and  easy  and  no  one 
to  be  hurt  or  damaged.  Oh !  " — her  voice  was  suddenly 
like  a  cry — "  Why  can't  we  just  go  through  life  without 
any  one  being  frightened  or  made  miserable.'*  I  believe 
in  cities  and  walls  and  fires  and  regulated  emotions — all 
those  other  things  can  only  hurt." 

"  They  teach  courage,"  Peter  answered  gravely.  "  And 
that's  about  the  only  thing  we're  here  to  learn,  I  expect. 
My  mother  died  because  she  wasn't  brave  enough  and  I 
want  ...  I  want.  .  .  ." 

He  broke  off — "  There's  only  one  thing  I  want  and 
that's  you,  Clare.  You  must  have  known  all  these  weeks 
that  I  love  you.  I've  loved  you  ever  since  I  met  you  that 
Good  Friday  afternoon  years  ago.  Let  me  take  care  of 
you,  see  that  no  one  hurts  you — ^love  you  .  .  .  love 
you—" 

"  Do  you  really  want  me,  Peter  ?  " 

He  didn't  speak  but  his  whole  body  turned  towards  her, 
answered  her  question. 

"  Because  I  am  yours  entirely.  I  became  yours  that  day 
when  your  hand  touched  mine.  I  wasn't  sure  before — I 
knew  then — " 

He  looked  at  her.     He  saw  her,  he  thought  for  the  first 


802  FORTITUDE 

time.     She  sat  with  her  hands  pressing  on  the  grass,  her 
body  bent  back  a  little. 

The  curve  from  her  neck  to  her  feet  was  like  the  shadow 
of  some  colour  against  the  brown  earth  because  he  saw  her 
only  dimly.  Her  hair  burnt  against  the  blue  sky  but  her 
eyes — her  eyes!  His  gaze  caught  hers  and  he  surren- 
dered himself  to  that  tenderness,  that  mystery,  that  passion 
that  she  flung  about  him.  In  her  eyes  he  saw  what  only 
a  lover  can  see — the  terror  and  the  splendour  of  a  soul 
surprised  for  the  first  time  into  love.  She  was  caught,  she 
was  trapped,  she  was  gorgeously  delivered.  In  her  eyes 
he  saw  that  he  had  her  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand  and  that 
she  was  glad  to  be  there. 

But  even  now  they  had  not  touched — they  had  not  moved 
from  their  places.  They  were  urged  towards  one  another 
by  some  fierce  power  but  also  some  great  suspense  still 
restrained  them. 

Then  Clare  spoke,  hurriedly,  almost  pleadingly. 

"  But  Peter,  listen — before  I  say  any  more — you  must 
know  me  better.  I  think  that  it  is  just  because  I  love 
you  so  much  that  I  see  myself  clearly  to-day  as  I  have 
never  seen  myself  before — although  I  have,  I  suppose 
really  known  .  .  .  things  .  .  .  but  I  have  denied  them  to 
myself.     But  now  I  know  that  all  that  I  say  is  true — " 

"  I  am  ready,"  he  said,  smiling. 

But  she  did  not  smile  back  at  him,  she  was  intensely 
serious,  she  sj>oke  without  moving  her  eyes  from  his 
face. 

"  It  is  not  altogether  my  fault.  I  have  been  an  only 
child  and  everything  that  I  have  wanted  I  have  always 
had.  I  have  despised  my  mother  and  even  my  father  be- 
cause they  have  given  in  to  me — that  is  not  a  pleasant  thing 
to  know.  And  now  comfort,  happiness,  an  absence  of  all 
'  misery,  these  things  are  essential — " 

■      "  I  will  look  after  you,"  said  Peter.     It  was  almost  with 
irritation  that  she  brushed  aside  his  assurance. 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know,  but  you  must  understand  that  it's 
more  than  that.  If  I  am  unhappy  I  am  another  creature 
you  haven't  seen  .  .  .  you  don't  know.  ...  If  I  am 
frightened — " 

"  But  Clare,  dear,  we're  all  like  that—" 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  803^ 

"  No,  it's  sheer  wickedness  with  me.  Oh !  Peter  I  love 
you  so  much  that  you  must  listen.  You  mustn't  think 
afterwards,  ah,  if  I'd  only  known — " 

"  Aren't  you  making  too  much  of  it  all  ?  We've  all  got 
these  things  and  it's  just  because  we  can  help  each  other 
that  we  marry.     We  give  each  the  courage — " 

"  I've   always    been    frightened/'    she    said    slowly,    "  al- 
ways when   anything  big  comes   along — always.     And  this  i 
is  the  biggest  thing   I've  ever  met.     If  only  it  had  been 
some  ordinary  man  .  .  .  but  you,  Peter,  that  I  should  hurt 
you" 

"  You  won't  hurt  me,"  he  answered  her,  "  and  I'd  rather 
be  hurt  by  you  than  helped  by  some  one  else — let's  leave 
all  this.  If  you  love  me,  there's  nothing  else  to  say.  .  .  , 
Do  you  love  me,  Clare  ?  " 

"Yes,  Peter." 

Then  suddenly  before  he  could  move  towards  her  a  storm 
that  had  been  creeping  upon  them,  burst  over  their  heads. 
Five  minutes  ago  there  had  been  no  sign  of  anything  but 
the  finest  weather,  but,  in  a  moment  the  black  clouds  had 
rolled  up  and  the  thunder  broke,  clashing  upon  the  world. 
The  sea  had  vanished. 

"  We  must  run  for  it,"  cried  Peter,  raising  his  voice 
against  the  storm.  "  That  cottage  over  there — it's  the  only 
place." 

They  ran.  The  common  was  black  now — ^the  rain  drove 
hissing,  against  the  soil,  the  air  was  hot  with  the  faint 
sulphur  smell. 

Peter  flung  himself  upon  the  cottage  door  and  Clare 
followed  him  in.  For  a  moment  they  stood,  breathless. 
Then  Peter,  conscious  only  that  Clare  was  beside  him, 
wild  with  the  excitement  of  the  storm,  caught  her,  held  her 
for  a  moment  away  from  him,  breathed  the  thunder  that 
was  about  them  all,  and  then  kissed  her  mouth,  wet  with 
the   rain. 

She  clung  to  him,  white,  breathless,  her  head  on  his  shoul- 
der. 

"  Why,  you're  not  frightened .''  "  The  sense  of  her  help- 
lessness filled  him  with  a  delicious  vigour.  The  way  that 
her  hand  pressed  in  upon  his  shoulder  exalted  him.  Her 
wet  golden  hair  brushed  his  cheek.     Then  he  remembered 


804  FORTITUDE 

that  they  had  invaded  the  cottage.  For  the  first  time  it 
occurred  to  him  that  their  first  embrace  might  have  been 
observed;  he  turned  around. 

The  room  was  filthy,  a  huge  black  fire-place  occupied 
most  of  it,  the  floor  was  littered  with  pieces  of  paper,  of 
vegetables  and  a  disagreeable  smell  protested  against  the 
closed  and  dirty  windows.  At  first  it  seemed  that  this  place 
was  empty  and  then,  with  a  start,  he  was  aware  that  two 
eyes  were  watching  them.  The  thunder  pealed  above  them, 
the  rain  lashed  the  roof  and  ran  streaming  from  the  eaves; 
the  cottage  was  dark;  but  he  saw  in  a  chair,  a  bundle  of 
rags  from  which  those  eyes  were  staring. 

Clare  gave  a  little  cry;  an  old  woman  with  a  fallen 
chin  and  a  face  like  yellow  parchment  sat  huddled  in  the 
chair. 

Peter  spoke  to  her.  "  I  hope  you  don't  mind  our  taking 
shelter  here,  whilst  the  storm  passes."  She  had  seen  them 
embrace;  it  made  him  uncomfortable,  but  the  storm  was 
passing  away,  already  the  thunder  was  more  distant. 

The  old  woman  made  no  reply,  only  her  eyes  glared  at 
them. 

Peter  put  his  hand  in  Clare's — "  It's  all  right;  I  think 
the  old  thing's  deaf  and  dumb  and  bUnd — look,  the  storm's 
passing — there's  a  bit  of  blue  sky.  Isn't  it  odd  an  old  thing 
like  that  .  .  ." 

Clare  shuddered  a  little.  "  I  don't  like  it — she's  hor- 
rid— this  place  is  so  dirty.     I  believe  the  rain's  stopped." 

They  opened  the  door  and  the  earth  met  them,  good  and 
sweet,  after  the  shower.  The  sky  was  breaking,  the  mists 
were  leaving  the  sea  and  as  the  storm  vanished,  the  sun, 
dipping  towards  the  horizon  flung  upon  the  blue  a  fleet  of 
tiny  golden  clouds. 

Peter  bent  down  to  the  old  woman. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  "  for  giving  us  shelter."  He 
placed  a  shilling  on  her  lap. 

"  She's  quite  deaf  and  bUnd,"  he  said.  "  Poor  old 
thing!" 

They  closed  the  door  behind  them  and  passed  down  a 
little  path  to  the  seashore.  Here  wonders  met  them.  The 
sand,  wet  with  the  recent  storm  catching  all   the  colours 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  305 

of  the  sky  shone  with  mother  of  pearl — here  a  pool  of  blue, 
there  the  fleet  of  golden  clouds. 

It  stretched  on  every  side  of  them,  blazing  with  colour. 
Behind  them  the  common,  sinking  now  into  the  dull  light 
of  evening. 

They  stood,  little  pigmies,  on  that  vast  painted  floor. 
Before  them  the  breeze,  blowing  back  the  waves  into  the 
sun  again  turned  the  spray  to  gold. 

Tiny  figures,  in  all  this  glory,  they  embraced.  In  all  the 
world  they  seemed  the  only  living  thing  .... 


Ill 

They  had  their  witness.  The  old  woman  who  lived  in 
the  heart  of  those  black  trees,  was  deaf  and  dumb  indeed, 
but  her  eyes  were  alive  in  her  fading  and  wrinkled  body. 

When  the  door  had  closed  she  rose  slowly  from  her 
chair,  and  her  face  was  wrinkled  with  the  passion  of  the 
hatred  that  her  old  soul  was  feeling. 

What  did  they  mean,  those  two,  coming  there  and  haunt- 
ing her  with  their  youth  and  strength  and  love.  Kissing 
there  before  her  as  though  she  were  already  dead — she  to 
whom  kisses  were  only  bitter  memories. 

Her  face  worked  with  fury — she  hobbled,  painfully,  to 
the  door  and  opened  it. 

Below  her,  on  a  floor  of  gold,  two  black  figures  stood 
together. 

Gazing  at  them  she  raised  her  thin  and  trembling  hand; 
she  flung  with  a  passionate,  furious  gesture,  something 
from  her. 

A  small  silver  coin  glittered  in  the  air,  whistled  for  a 
moment  and  fell. 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE  ROUNDABOUT 


MRS.  ROSSITER  and  Mrs.  Galleon  sat  solemnly, 
with  the  majesty  of  spreading  skirts  and  Sunday 
Best  hats,  in  the  little  drawing-room  of  The  Roundabout, 
awaiting  the  return  from  the  honeymoon. 

The  Roundabout  is  the  name  that  Peter  has  given  to  the 
little  house  in  Dorset  Street,  Chelsea,  that  he  has  chosen  to 
live  in  with  his  bride.  High  spirits  lead  to  nicknames  and 
Peter  was  in  the  very  highest  of  spirits  when  he  took  the 
house.  The  name  alluded  both  to  the  shape — round  bow- 
window  like — fat  bulging  little  walls,  lemon-coloured,  and 
to  the  kind  of  life  that  Peter  intended  to  lead.  All  was 
to  be  Happiness.  Life  is  challenged  with  all  the  high  spirits 
of  a  truly  happy  ceremony. 

It  is  indeed  a  tiny  house — tiny  hall,  tiny  stairs,  tiny 
rooms  but  quaint  with  a  little  tumble-down  orchard  behind 
it  and  that  strange  painted  house  that  old  mad  Miss  An- 
derson lives  in  on  the  other  side  of  the  orchard.  Such  a 
quiet  little  street  too  ...  a  line  of  the  gravest  trees,  cob- 
bles with  only  the  most  occasional  cart  and  a  little  church 
with  a  sleepy  bell  at  the  farthest  end  ...  all  was  to  be 
Happiness. 

Wedding  presents — there  had  been  six  hundred  or  so- 
filled  the  rooms.  People  had,  on  the  whole,  been  sensible, 
had  given  the  right  thing.  The  little  drawing-room  with 
its  grey  wall-paper,  roses  in  blue  jars,  its  two  pictures — 
Velasquez'  Maria  Theresa  in  an  old  silver  frame  and  Rem- 
brandt's Night  Watch — was  pleasant,  but  overwhelmed  now 
by  the  presence  of  these  two  enormous  ladies.  The  even- 
ing sun,  flooding  it  all  with  yellow  light,  was  impertinent 
enough  to  blind  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Rossiter.  She  rose  and 
moved  slowly  to  draw  down  the  blinds.  A  little  silver 
clock  struck  half -past  four. 

906 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  307 

"  They  must  soon  be  here/'  said  Mrs.  Galleon  gloomily. 
Her  gloom  was  happy  and  comfortable.  She  was  making 
the  very  most  of  a  pleasant  business  with  the  greatest  sat- 
isfaction in  the  world.  She  had  done  exactly  the  same  at 
Bobby's  wedding,  and,  in  her  heavy,  determined  way  she 
would  do  the  same  again  before  she  died.  Alice  Galleon 
would  be  there  in  a  moment,  meantime  the  two  ladies,  with- 
out moving  in  their  chairs,  flung  sentences  across  at  one 
another  and  smoothed  their  silk  skirts  with  their  white 
plump   hands. 

"  It's  not  really  a  healthy  house — " 

"  No — with  the  orchard — and  it's  much  too  small — " 

"  Poor  dears,  hope  they'll  be  happy.  But  one  can't 
help  feeling,  Jane  dear,  that  it  was  a  little  rash  of  you  .  .  . 
your  only  girl  .  .  .  and  one  knows  so  little  about  Mr. 
Westcott,  really — " 

"  Well,  your  own  Bobby  vouched  for  him.  He'd  known 
him  at  school  after  all,  and  we  all  know  how  cautious 
Bobby  is  about  people — besides,  Emma,  no  one  could  have 
received  him  more  warmly — " 

"  Yes — Oh !  of  course  .  .  .  but  still,  having  no  family 
— coming  out  of  nowhere,  so  to  speak — " 

"  Well,  it's  to  be  hoped  they'll  get  on.  I  must  say  that 
Clare  will  miss  her  home  terribly.  It  takes  a  lot  to  make 
up  for  that — And  her  father  so  devoted  too.  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  we  must  make  the  best  of  it." 

The  sun's  light  faded  from  the  room — the  clock  and  the 
pictures  stood  out  sharply  against  the  gathering  dusk. 
Two  ladies  filled  the  room  with  their  shadows  and  the  little 
fire  clicked  and  rattled  behind  the  murmuring  voices. 


II 

Alice  Galleon  burst  in  upon  them.  "  What !  Not  ar- 
rived yet!  the  train  must  be  dreadfully  late.  Lights! 
Lights !     No,  don't  you  move,  mother !  " 

She  returned  with  lamps  and  flooded  the  room  with 
light.  The  ladies  displayed  a  feeble  protest  against  her 
exultant  happiness. 

"  I'm  sure,  my  dear,  I  hope  that  nothing  has  happened," 

"  My  dear  mother,  what  could  happen  ?  " 


SOS  FORTITUDE 

"  Well,  you  never  know  with  these  trains — and  a  honey- 
moon, too,  is  always  rather  a  dangerous  time.  I  remem- 
ber— " 

"  I  hear  them !  "  Alice  cried  and  there  indeed  they  were 
to  be  heard  bumping  and  banging  in  the  little  hall.  The 
door  opened  and  Peter  and  Clare,  radiant  with  happiness^ 
appeared. 

They  stood  in  the  doorway,  side  by  side,  Clare  in  a  little 
white  hat  and  grey  tra^-elling  dress  and  Peter  browner  and 
stronger  and  squarer  than  ever. 

All  these  people  filled  the  little  room.  There  was  a 
crackling  fire  of  conversation. 

"  Oh !  but  we've  had  a  splendid  time — " 

"  No,  I  don't  think  Clare's  in  the  least  tired — " 

"  Yes,  isn't  the  house  a  duck }  " 

"Don't  we  just  love  being  back!" 

"...  hoping  you  hadn't  caught  colds — " 

"...  besides  we  had  the  easiest  crossing — " 

"...  How's    Bobby?" 

"...  were  so  afraid  that  something  must  have  hap- 
pened— " 

Mrs.  Rossiter  took  Clare  upstairs  to  help  her  to  take 
her  hat  off. 

Mother  and  daughter  faced  one  another — Clare  flimg 
herself  into  her  mother's  arms. 

"  Oh !     Mother  dear,  he's   wonderful,  wonderful !  " 

Downstairs  Alice  watched  Peter  critically.  She  had  not 
realised  until  this  marriage,  how  fond  she  had  grown  of 
Peter.  She  had,  for  him,  very  much  the  feeling  that  Bobby 
had — a  sense  of  tolerance  and  even  indulgence  for  all 
tempers  and  morosities  and  morbidities.  She  had  seen  him, 
on  a  day,  like  a  boy  of  eighteen,  loving  the  world  and  every- 
thing in  it,  hanng,  too,  a  curious  inexperience  of  the  things 
that  life  might  mean  to  people,  unable,  apparently,  to  see 
the  sterner  side  of  life  at  all — and  then  suddenly  that  had 
gone  and  given  place  to  a  mood  in  which  no  one  could  help 
him,  nothing  could  ^heer  him  .  .  .  like  Saul,  he  was  pos- 
sessed with  Spirits. 

Now,  as  he  stood  there,  he  looked  not  a  day  more  than 
eighteen.  Happiness  filled  him  with  colour — bis  eyea  were 
shining — bJs  mouth  smiling. 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  309 

"  Alice,  old  girl — she's  splendid.  I  couldn't  have  be- 
lieved that  life  could  be  so  good — " 

A  curious  weight  was  lifted  from  her  at  his  words.  She 
did  not  know  what  it  was  that  she  had  dreaded.  Perhaps 
it  had  been  merely  a  sense  that  Clare  was  too  young  and 
inexperienced  to  manage  so  difficult  a  temperament  as 
Peter's — and  now,  after  all,  it  seemed  that  she  had  man- 
aged it.  But  in  realising  the  relief  that  she  felt  she  real- 
ised too  the  love  that  she  had  for  Peter.  When  he  was 
young  and  happy  the  risks  that  he  ran  seemed  just  as 
heavy  as  when  he  was  old  and  miserable. 

"  Oh,  Peter !  I'm  so  glad — I  know  she's  splendid — Oh ! 
I  believe  you  are  going  to  be  happy — " 

"  Yes ! "  he  answered  her  confidently,  "  I  believe  we 
are — " 

The  ladies — Mrs.  Galleon,  Mrs.  Rossiter  and  Alice — 
retired.  Later  on  Clare  and  Peter  were  coming  into 
Bobby's  for  a  short  time. 

Left  alone  in  their  little  house,  he  drew  her  to  the  win- 
dow that  overlooked  the  orchard  and  silently  they  gazed 
out  at  the  old,  friendly,  gnarled  and  knotted  tree,  and  the 
old  thick  garden-wall  that  stretched  sharply  against  the 
night-sky. 

Behind  them  the  fire  crackled  and  the  lamps  shed  their 
pleasant  glow  and  that  dear  child  with  the  great  stiff  dress 
that  Velasquez  painted  smiled  at  them  from  the  wall. 

Peter  gave  a  deep  sigh  of  happiness. 

"  Our  House  .  .  ."  he  said  and  drew  her  very  close 
to  him.  The  two  of  them,  as  they  stood  there  outlined 
against  the  window  were  so  young  and  so  pleasant  that 
surely  the  Gods  would  have  pity! 

in 

In  the  days  that  followed  he  watched  it  all  with  in- 
credulity. So  swiftly  had  he  been  tossed,  it  seemed,  from 
fate  to  fate,  and  so  easily,  also,  did  he  leave  behind  him 
the  things  that  had  weighed  him  down.  No  sign  now  of 
that  Peter — evident  enough  in  the  Brockett  days — morose, 
silent,  sometimes  oppressed  by  a  sense  of  unreasoned  catas- 
trophe, stepping  into  his  bookshop  and  out  again  as  though 
all  the  world  were  his  enemy. 


810  FORTITUDE 

Peter  knew  now  that  he  was  loved.  He  had  felt  that 
precious  quality  on  the  day  that  his  mother  died,  he  had 
felt  it  sometimes  when  he  had  been  in  Stephen's  company, 
but  against  these  isolated  emotions  what  a  world  of  hate 
and   bitterness. 

Now  he  felt  Clare's  affection  on  every  side  of  him. 
They  had  already  in  so  short  a  time  a  store  of  precious 
memories,  intimacies,  that  they  shared.  They  had  been 
through  wild,  passionate  wonders  together  and  standing 
now,  two  human  beings  with  casual  words  and  laughing 
eyes,  yet  they  knew  that  perfect  holy  secrets  bound  them 
together. 

He  stood  sometimes  in  the  little  house  and  wondered  for 
an  instant  whether  it  was  all  true.  Where  were  all  those 
half  cloudy  dreams,  those  impulses,  those  dread  inheri- 
tances that  once  he  had  known  so  well?  WTiere  that  other 
Peter  Westcott?  Not  here  in  this  dear  delicious  little  house, 
with  Love  and  Home  and  great  raging  happiness  in  his 
heart. 

He  wrote  to  Stephen,  to  Mr.  Zanti,  to  Norah  Monogue 
and  told  them.  He  recei^'^d  no  answers — no  word  from 
the  outer  world  had  come  to  him.  That  other  life  seemed 
cut  off,  separated — closed.  Perhaps  it  had  left  him 
for  ever!  Perhaps,  as  Clare  said,  walls  and  fires  were 
better  than  wind  and  loneliness — comfort  more  than 
danger.  .  .  .  Meanwhile,  in  his  study  at  the  top  of  the 
house,  "  The  Stone  House  "  was  still  lying,  waiting,  at  Chap- 
ter II-- 

But  it  was  Clare  who  was  the  eternal  wonder.  He  could 
not  think  of  her,  create  her,  pile  up  the  offerings  before 
her  altar,  sufficiently.  That  he  should  have  had  the  good 
fortune.  ...   It  ne\'er  ceased  to  amaze  him. 

As  the  weeks  and  months  passed  his  life  centred  more 
and  more  round  Clare  and  the  house  that  they  shared  to- 
gether. He  knew  now  many  people  in  London;  they  were 
invited  continually  to  dinners,  parties,  theatres,  dances. 
Clare's  set  in  London  had  been  very  different  from  Peter's 
literary  world,  and  they  were  therefore  acclaimed  citizens 
of  two  very  different  circles,  Peter,  too,  had  his  reviewing 
articles  in  many  papers — the  whole  whirligig  of  Fleet 
Street.     (How  little  a  time,  by  the  way,  since  that  dread- 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  311 

ful  day  when  he  had  sat  on  that  seat  on  the  Embankment 
and  talked  to  the  lady  with  the  Hat!) 

His  days  during  this  first  year  of  married  life  were  full, 
varied,  exciting  as  they  could  be — and  yet,  through  it  all, 
his  eye  was  always  upon  that  little  house,  upon  the  mo- 
ment when  the  door  might  be  closed,  the  fire  blazing  and 
they  two  were  alone,  alone — 

He  was,  indeed,  during  this  year,  a  charming  Peter.  He 
loved  her  with  the  hero  worship  of  a  boy,  but  also  with  a 
humour,  a  consciousness  of  success,  a  happy  freedom  that 
denied  all  mawkish  sham  sentiment.  He  studied  only  to 
please  her.  He  found  that,  after  all,  she  did  not  care  very 
greatly  for  literature  or  music  or  pictures.  Her  enthusi- 
asm for  these  things  was  the  enthusiasm  of  a  child  who  is 
bathed  in  an  atmosphere  of  appreciation  and  would  return 
it  on  to  any  object  that  she  could  find. 

He  discovered  that  she  loved  compliments,  that  she  cared 
about  dress,  that  she  loved  to  have  crowds  of  friends  about 
her,  and  that  parties  excited  her  as  though  these  were  the 
first  that  she  had  ever  known.  But  he  found,  too,  that  in 
those  half-hours  when  she  was  alone  with  him  she  showed 
her  love  for  him  with  a  passion  and  emphasis  that  was  al- 
most terrifying.  Sometimes  when  she  clung  to  him  it  was 
as  though  she  was  afraid  that  it  was  not  going  to  last.  He 
discovered  in  the  very  beginning  that  below  all  her  happy 
easy  life,  an  undercurrent  of  apprehension,  sometimes  only 
vaguely  felt,  sometimes  springing  into  sight  like  the  eyes 
of  some  beast  in  the  dark,  kept  company  with  her. 

It  was  always  the  future — a  perfectly  vague,  indefinite 
future  that  terrified  her.  Every  moment  of  her  life  had 
been  sheltered  and  happy  and,  by  reason  of  that  very  shel- 
ter, her  fears  had  grown  upon  her.  He  remembered  one 
evening  when  they  had  been  present  at  some  party  and 
she  had  been  radiant,  beautiful,  in  his  eyes  divine.  Her 
little  body  had  been  strung  to  its  utmost  energy,  she  had 
whirled  through  the  evening  and  at  last  as  they  returned 
in  the  cab,  she  had  laid  her  head  on  his  shoulder  and  sud- 
denly flung  her  arms  about  him  and  kissed  him — his  eyes, 
his  cheeks,  his  mouth — again  and  again.  "  Oh !  I'm  so  safe 
with  you,  Peter  dear,"  she  had  cried  to  him. 

He  loved  those  evenings  when  they  were  alone  and  she 


S12  FORTITUDE 

would  sit  on  the  floor  with  her  head  on  his  knee  and  her 
hand  against  his.  Then  suddenly  she  would  lean  back  and 
pull  his  head  down  and  kiss  his  eyes,  and  then  very  slowly 
let  him  go.  And  the  fierceness,  the  passion  of  her  love 
for  him  roused  in  him  a  strength  of  devotion  that  all  the 
years  of  unhappiness  had  been  storing.  He  was  still  only 
a  boy — the  first  married  year  brought  his  twenty-seventh 
birthday — but  his  love  for  Clare  had  the  depth  and  reserve 
that  belongs  to  a  man. 

Mrs.  Launce,  watching  them  both,  was  sometimes  fright- 
ened. "  God  help  them  both  if  anything  interferes,"  she 
said  once  to  her  husband.  "  I've  seen  that  boy  look  at  Clare 
with  a  devotion  that  hurts.  Peter's  no  ordinary  mortal — 
I  wonder,  now  and  again,  whether  Clare's  worth  it  all." 

But  this  year  seemed  to  silence  all  her  fears.  The  hap- 
piness of  that  little  house  shone  through  Chelsea.  "  Oh, 
we're  dining  with  the  Westcotts  to-night — they'll  cheer  us 
up — they're  always  so  happy  " — "  Oh !  did  you  see  Clare 
Westcott?     I  never  saw  any  one  so  radiant." 

And  once  Bobby  said  to  Alice:  "We  made  a  mistake, 
old  girl,  about  that  marriage.  It's  made  another  man  of 
Peter.     He's  joy  personified." 

"  If  only,"  Alice  had  answered,  "  destiny  or  whatever 
it  is  will  let  them  alone.  I  feel  as  though  they  were  two 
precious  pieces  of  china  that  a  housemaid  might  sweep  off 
the  chimney  piece  at  any  moment.  If  only  nobody  will 
touch  them — " 

Meanwhile  Peter  had  forgotten,  utterly  forgotten,  the 
rest  of  the  world.  Walls  and  fires — for  a  year  they  had 
held  him.  The  Roundabout  versus  the  World.  .  .  .  Wliat 
of  old  Frosted  Moses,  of  the  Sea  Road,  of  Stephen,  of  Mr. 
Zanti?  What  of  those  desperate  days  in  Bucket  Lane? 
All  gone  for  nothing? 

Clare,  perhaps,  with  this  year  behind  her,  hardly  realised 
the  forces  against  which  she  was  arrayed.  Beware  of  the 
Gods  after  silence.  .  .  . 


rv 

And,  after  all,  it  was  Clare  herself  who  flung  down  the 
glove. 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  S19 

On  a  winter's  evening  she  was  engaged  to  some  woman's 
party.  Peter  had  planned  an  evening,  snug  and  indus- 
trious, alone  with  a  book.  "  The  Stone  House  "  awaited  his 
attention — he  had  not  worked  at  it  for  months.  Also  he 
knew  that  he  owed  Henry  Galleon  a  visit.  Why  he  had 
not  been  to  see  the  old  man  lately  he  scarcely  knew. 

Clare,  standing  in  the  little  hall,  waiting  for  a  cab, 
suggested  an  alternative. 

"  Peter  dear,  why  don't  you  go  rovmd  to  Brockett's  if 
you've  nothing  to  do  ?  " 

"  Brockett's !  " 

"  Yes.  You've  never  been  since  we  married,  and  I  had 
a  letter  from  Norah  this  morning — not  at  all  cheerful — 
I'm  afraid  she's  been  ill  for  months.  They'd  love  to  see 
you." 

"Brockett's!"  He  stood  astounded.  Well,  why  not? 
A  strange  emotion — uncomfortable,  alien,  stirred  him.  He 
kissed  her  and  saw  her  go  with  a  half-distracted  gaze. 
What  a  world  away  Brockett's  seemed !  Old  Mrs.  Lazarus, 
Norah  (poor  Norah !)  Mrs.  Brockett,  young  Robin  Tressi- 
ter.  They  would  be  glad  to  see  him — it  was  a  natural  thing 
enough  that  he  should  go — what  was  it  that  held  him  back.? 
For  the  first  time  since  his  marriage,  as  he  slowly  and 
thoughtfully  put  on  his  greatcoat,  he  was  distressed.  He 
reproached  himself — Norah,  Stephen,  Mr.  Zanti!  ...  he 
had  not  given  them  a  thought. 

He  felt,  as  he  went  out,  as  though  he  were  going,  with 
key  and  candle,  to  unlock  some  old  rusty  door  that  led  into 
secret  rooms.  It  was  a  wet,  windy  night.  The  branches 
of  the  little  orchard  rattled  and  groaned,  and  doors  and 
windows  were  creaking. 

As  he  passed  into  the  shadows  and  silence  of  Blooms- 
bury  the  impression  weighed  with  increasing  heaviness  upon 
him  that  the  old  Peter  had  come  back  and  that  his  married 
life  with  Clare  had  been  a  dream.  He  was  still  at 
Brockett's,  still  silent,  shy,  awkward,  still  poring  over  pages 
of  "  Reuben  Hallard  "  and  wondering  whether  any  one  would 
ever  publish  it — still  spending  so  many  hours  in  the  old 
musty  bookshop  with  Herr  Gottfried's  wild  mop  of  hair 
boming  so  madly  above  the  little  counter. 

The  wind  tugged  aX  his  xmabrella,  the  rain  lashed  his 


814.  FORTITUDE 

face  and  at  last,  breathless,  with  the  sharp  corner  of  his 
upturned  collar  digging  into  his  chin,  he  pulled  the  bell  of 
the  old  grey  remorseless  door  that  he  knew  so  well.  There 
was  no  one  in  Bennett  Square,  only  the  two  lamps  dimly 
marked  its  desolation. 

The  door  was  opened  by  Mrs.  Brockett  herself  and  she 
stood  there,  stem  and  black  peering  into  his  face. 

"What  is  it.^     What  do  you  want?"  she  asked  grimly. 

He  brushed  past  her  laughing  and  stood  back  under  the 
gas  in  the  hall  looking  at  her. 

She  gave  a  little  cry.  "  No !  It  can't  be !  Why,  Mr. 
Westcott !  " 

He  had  never,  in  all  the  seven  years  that  he  had  been 
with  her,  seen  her  so  strongly  moved. 

"  But  Mr.  Westcott !  To  think  of  it !  And  the  times 
we've  talked  of  you !  And  you  never  coming  near  us  all 
this  while.  You  might  have  been  dead  for  all  we  knew,  and 
indeed  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Miss  Monogue  the  other  day 
we'd  have  heard  no  news  since  the  day  that  wild  man  with 
the  beard  came  walking  in,"  she  broke  off  suddenly — "  and 
there  you  are,  holding  your  umbrella  with  the  point  down 
and  making  a  great  pool  on  the  carpet  as  though — "  She 
took  the  umbrella  from  him  but  her  hand  rested  for  an 
instant  on  his  arm  and  she  said  gruffly — 

"  But  all  the  same,  Mr.  Peter,  I'm  more  glad  to  see  you 
than  I  can  say — "  She  took  him  into  her  little  room  and 
looked  at  him,  "  But  you've  not  changed  in  the  least," 
she  said,  "  not  in  the  very  least  And  where,  pray,  Mr. 
Peter,  have  you  been  all  this  time  and  come  nowhere 
near   us  ?  " 

He  tried  to  explain;  he  was  confused,  he  said  something 
about  marriage  and  stopped.  The  room  was  filled  with 
that  subtle  odour  that  brought  his  other  life  back  to  him 
in  a  torrent.  He  was  bathed  in  it,  overwhelmed  by  it — 
roast-beef,  mutton,  blacking,  oil-cloth,  decayed  flowers, 
geraniums,  damp  stone,  bread  being  toasted — all  these 
things  were  in  it. 

He  filled  his  nostrils  with  the  delicious  pathos  and  in- 
timacy of  it. 

She  regarded  him  sternly.  "  Now,  Mr.  Peter,  it's  of  no 
use.     Oh,  yes,  we've  heard  about  your  wedding.     You  wrot« 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  315 

to  Miss  Monogue.  But  there  were  days  before  that,  many 
of  them,  and  never  so  much  as  a  postcard.  With  some  of 
my  boarders  it  would  be  natural  enough,  because  what  could 
you  expect?  We  didn't  want  them,  they  didn't  want  us — 
only  habit  as  you  might  say.  But  you,  Mr.  Peter — why 
just  think  of  the  way  we  were  fond  of  you — Mrs.  Lazarus 
and  little  Robin  and  Miss   Monogue — as  well  as  myself." 

She  stopped  and  pulled  out  her  handkerchief  and  blew 
her  nose. 

"  I  dare  say  you're  a  famous  man,"  she  went  on,  "  with 
your  books  and  your  marriage  and  the  rest  of  it,  but  that 
doesn't  alter  your  old  friends  being  your  old  friends  and 
it  never  will.  There,  I'm  getting  cross  when  all  I 
mean  to  say  is  that  I'm  more  delighted  to  see  you  than 
words." 

He  was  humble  before  her.  He  felt,  indeed,  that  he 
had  been  the  most  unutterable  brute.  How  could  he  have 
stayed  away  all  this  time  with  these  dear  people  waiting 
for  him  ?     He  simply  hadn't  realised — 

"And  Miss  Monogue?"  he  asked  at  last,  "I'm  afraid 
she's  not  been  very  well?  " 

"  She's  been  very  ill  indeed — for  months.  At  one  time 
we  were  afraid  that  she  would  go.  It's  her  heart.  Poot 
dear,  and  she's  been  worrying  so  about  her  work — but  she's 
better  now  and  she'll  be  truly  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Peter — 
but  you  mustn't  stay  more  than  a  few  minutes.  She's  up 
on  the  sofa  but  it's  the  excitement  that's  bad  for  her." 

But  first  Peter  went  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  Tressiter  es- 
tablishment. He  knew,  from  old  custom,  that  this  would 
be  the  hour  when  the  family  would  be  getting  itself,  by 
slow  and  noisy  degrees,  to  bed.  So  tremendous,  indeed, 
was  the  tumult  that  he  was  able  to  open  the  door  and  stand, 
within  the  room,  watching  and  un-noticed.  Mrs.  Tressiter 
was  attempting  to  bathe  a  fat  and  very  strident  baby.  Two 
small  boys  were  standing  on  a  bed  and  hitting  one  another 
with  pillows;  a  little  girl  lay  on  her  face  on  the  floor  and 
howled  for  no  apparent  reason;  Robin,  but  little  older  than 
Peter's  last  impression  of  him  had  painted,  was  standing, 
naked  save  for  his  shirt  and  looking  down,  gravely,  at  his 
screaming  sister. 

Every  now   and  again,   Mrs.    Tressiter,  without  ceasing 


816  FORTITUDE 

from  her  work  on  the  baby  who  slipped  about  in  her  hands 
like  a  stout  eel,  cried  in  a  shrill  voice:  "  Children,  if  you 
don't  be  quiet,"  or  "  Nicholas,  in  a  moment  I'll  give  you 
such  a  beating," — or  "  Agatha,  for  goodness'  sake !  "  .  .  . 

Then  suddenly  Robin,  looking  up,  caught  sight  of  Peter, 
he  gave  a  shout  and  was  across  the  room  in  an  instant. 
There  was  never  a  moment's  doubt  in  his  eyes.  He  flung 
himself  upon  Peter's  body,  he  wound  his  arms  round  Peter's 
leg,  he  beat  uf)on  his  chest  with  his  bullet  head,  he  cried: 
"Oh!     Mr.  Peter  has  come!     Mr.  Peter  has  come!" 

Mrs.  Tressiter  let  the  baby  fall  into  the  bath  with  a 
splash  and  there  it  lay  howling.  The  other  members  of 
the  family  gathered  round. 

But  Peter  thought  that  he  had  known  no  joy  so  acute 
for  years  as  the  welcome  that  the  small  boy  gave  him.  He 
hoisted  Robin  on  to  his  shoulder,  and  there  Robin  sat  with 
his  naked  little  legs  dangling  over,  his  hands  in  the  big 
man's  neck. 

"  Oh !  Mr.  Westcott,  I'm  sure  .  .  ."  said  Mrs.  Tressi- 
ter, smiling  from  ear  to  ear  and  wiping  her  wet  hands  on 
her  apron — Robin  bent  his  head  and  bit  Peter's  ear. 

"  Get  on,  horse,"  he  cried  and  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
there  was  wild  riot  in  the  Tressiter  family.  Then  they 
were  all  put  to  bed,  as  good  as  gold, — "  you  might  have 
heard  a  pin  drop,"  said  Mrs.  Tressiter,  "  when  Agatha  said 
her  prayers  " — and  at  last  the  lights  were  put  out. 

Peter  bent  down  over  Robin's  bed  and  the  boy  flung  his 
arms  round  his  neck. 

"  I  dreamed  of  you — I  knew  you'd  come,"  he  whispered. 

"  What  shall  I  send  you  as  a  present  to-morrow  ?  "  asked 
Peter. 

"  Soldiers — soldiers  on  horses.  Those  with  cannons  and 
shiny  things  on  their  backs.  .  .  ."  Robin  was  very  explicit 
—"You'll  be  here  to-morrow.?"  he  asked. 

"  No — not  to-morrow,"  Peter  answered. 

"Soon?" 

"  Yes,  soon." 

"  I  love  you,  more  than  Agatha,  more  than  Dick,  more 
than  any  one  'cept  Daddy  and  Mummy." 

"  You'll  be  a  good  boy  until  I  come  back?  " 

"  Promise  .  .  .  but  come  back  soon." 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  S17' 

Peter  gave  him  a  long  kiss  and  left  him.  Supposing,  one 
day,  he  had  a  boy  like  that?  A  little  boy  in  a  shirt  like 
that?  Wouldn't  it  be  simply  too  wonderful?  A  boy  to 
give  soldiers  to.  .  .  . 

He  went  across  to  Miss  Monogue's  door.  A  faint  voice 
answered  his  knock  and,  entering  the  room,  the  scent  of 
medicine  and  flowers  that  he  always  connected  with  his 
mother,  met  him.  Norah  Monogue,  very  white,  with  dark 
shadows  beneath  her  eyes,  was  lying  on  the  sofa  by  the  fire. 

Mrs.  Brockett  had  prepared  her  for  Peter's  coming  and 
she  smiled  up  at  him  with  her  old  smile  and  gave  him  her 
hand.  How  thin  and  white  it  was  with  its  long  slender 
fingers !  He  sat  down  by  her  sofa  and  he  knew  by  the 
way  that  she  looked  at  him  that  she  was  reproaching 
him — 

"  Naughty  Peter,"  she  said,  "  all  these  months  and  you 
have  been  nowhere  near  us." 

"  I,  too,  have  a  bone — ^you  never  sent  me  a  word  about 
my  wedding." 

She  turned  her  head  away.  "  I  was  frightfully  ill  just 
then.  They  didn't  think  I'd  pull  through.  I  did  write 
afterwards  to  Clare,  I  told  her  how  ill  I'd  been — " 

"  She  never  told  me." 

Peter  bent  over  the  sofa.  "  But  I  am  ashamed,  Norah, 
more  ashamed  than  I  can  say.  After  I  got  well  and  went 
to  live  with  the  Galleons  a  new  life  seemed  to  begin  for  me 
and  I  was  so  eager  and  excited  about  it  all.  And  then — " 
he  hesitated  for  a  moment — "  there  was  Clare." 

"  Yes,  I  know  there  was  Clare  and  I  am  so  delighted 
about  it — I  know  that  you  will  both  be  so  happy.  .  .  . 
But,  when  one  is  lying  here  week  after  week  and  is  wor- 
ried and  tired  things  take  such  a  different  outline.  I 
thought  that  you  and  Clare — that  you  .  .  .  had  given  me 
up  altogether  and — " 

Suddenly  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands  she  began  to  cry. 
It  was  inexpressibly  desolate  there  in  the  dim  bare  little 
room,  and  the  sharp  sense  of  his  neglect  and  the  remem- 
brance of  the  good  friend  that  she  had  been  to  him  for  so 
many  years  overwhelmed  Peter. 

He  knelt  down  and  put  his  arms  round  her.  "  Norah — 
don't,  please,  I  can't  bear  it.     It's  all  right.     I've  been  a 


318  FORTITUDE 

beast,  a  selfish  cad.  But  it  shan't  happen  again.  I'll  come 
often — I'm  ashamed." 

She  cried  for  a  little  and  then  she  smiled  at  him.  "  I'm 
a  fool  to  cry  like  that  but  you  see  I'm  weak  and  ill — and 
seeing  you  again  after  all  this  time  and  your  being  so  suc- 
cessful and  happy  upset  me  I  suppose.  Forgive  it,  Peter, 
and  come  again  one  day  when  I'm  better  and  stronger — 
and  bring  Clare  too." 

She  held  tightly  to  his  hand  and  her  grasp  was  hot  and 
feverish.  He  reassured  her,  told  her  that  he  would  come 
soon  again,  that  he  would  bring  Clare  and  so  left  her. 

He  took  a  cab  and  drove  back  to  Chelsea  in  a  storm  of 
agitation.  Suddenly,  out  of  nothing  as  it  were,  all  these 
people,  this  old  life  had  been  thrust  up  in  front  of  him — 
had  demanded,  made  claims.  About  him  once  again  was 
the  old  atmosphere:  figures  were  filling  his  brain,  the  world 
was  a  wild  tossing  place  .  .  .  one  of  those  Roundabouts 
witli  the  hissing  lights,  the  screaming  music,  the  horses  going 
up  and  down.  Plain  enough  now  that  the  old  life  was  not 
done  with.  Every  moment  of  his  past  life  seemed  to  spring 
before  him  claiming  recognition.  He  was  drunk  with  the 
desire  for  work.  He  flung  the  cabman  something,  dashed 
into  the  little  house,  was  in  his  room.  The  lamp  was 
lighted,  the  door  was  shut,  there  was  silence,  and  in  his 
brain  figures,  scenes,  sentences  were  racing — "  The  Stone 
House,"  neglected  for  so  long,  had  begun  once  more,  to  climb. 

The  hours  passed,  the  white  sheets  were  covered  and 
flung  aside.  Dimly  through  a  haze,  he  saw  Clare  standing 
in  the  doorway. 

"Bad  old  boy!" 

He  scarcely  glanced  up.  "I'm  not  coming  yet — caught 
by  work." 

"  Don't  be  at  it  too  late." 

He  made  no  reply. 

She  closed  the  door  softly  behind  her. 


CHAPTER  V 
THE  IN-BETWEENS 

I 
fin  HEN,  out  of  the  wind  and  rain,  came  Mr.  Zanti. 

II 

Three  days  after  Peter's  visit  to  Brockett's  he  was  fin- 
ishing a  letter  before  dressing  for  dinner.  He  and  Clare 
were  going  on  to  a  party  later  in  the  evening  but  were 
dining  quietly  alone  together  first.  The  storms  that  had 
fallen  upon  London  three  days  before  were  still  pommelling 
and  buffeting  the  city,  the  trees  outside  the  window  groaned 
and  creaked  with  a  mysterious  importance  as  though  they 
were  trying  to  tell  one  another  secrets,  and  little  branches 
tapped  at  the  dripping  panes.  He  was  writing  in  the  little 
drawing-room — warm  and  comfortable — and  the  Maria 
Theresa,  so  small  a  person  in  so  much  glory,  looked  down 
on  him  from  her  silver  frame  and  gave  him  company. 

Then  Sarah — a  minute  servant,  who  always  entered  a 
room  as  though  swept  into  it  by  a  cyclone — breathlessly 
announced  that  there  was  a  gentleman  to  see  Mr.  Westcott. 

"  'E's  drippin'  in  the  'all,"  she  gasped  and  handed  Peter 
a  very  dirty  bit  of  paper. 

Peter  read: — "Dear  Boy,  Being  about  to  leave  this 
country  on  an  expedition  of  the  utmost  importance  I  feel 
that  I  must  shake  you  by  the  hand  before  I  go.  Emilio 
Zanti." 

Mr.  Zanti,  enormous,  smiling  from  ear  to  ear,  engulfed 
in  a  great  coat  from  which  his  huge  head,  buffeted  by  wind 
and  rain — his  red  cheeks,  his  rosy  nose,  his  sparkling  eyes 
— stood  out  like  some  strange  and  cheerful  flower — filled 
the  doorway. 

He  enfolded  Peter  in  his  arms,  pressed  him  against  very 
:ieet  garments,  kissed  him  on  both  cheeks  and  burst  into  a 

Sid 


820  FORTITUDE 

torrent  of  explanation.  He  was  only  in  London  for  a  very 
few  days — he  must  see  his  dearest  Peter — so  often  before 
he  had  wanted  to  see  his  Peter  but  he  had  thought  that  it 
would  be  better  to  leave  him — and  then  he  had  heard  that 
his  Peter  was  married — well,  he  must  see  his  lady — it  was 
entirely  necessary  that  he  should  kiss  her  hand  and  wish 
her  well  and  congratulate  her  on  having  secured  his  "  own, 
own  Peter,"  for  a  life  partner.  Yes,  he  had  found  his 
address  from  that  Pension  .where  Peter  used  to  live;  they 
had  told  him  and  he  had  come  at  once  because  at  once,  this 
very  night,  he  was  away  to  Spain  where  there  was  a  secret 
expedition — ah,  very  secret — and  soon — in  a  month,  two 
months — he  would  return,  a  rich,  rich  man.  This  was  the 
adventure  of  Mr.  Zanti's  life  and  when  he  was  in  England 
again  he,  Mr.  Zanti,  would  see  much  of  Peter  and  of  his 
beautiful  wife — of  course  she  was  beautiful — and  of  the 
dear  children  that  were  to  come — 

Here  Peter  interrupted  him.  He  had  listened  to  the  tor- 
rent of  words  in  an  odd  confusion.  The  last  time  that  he 
had  seen  Mr.  Zanti  he  had  left  him,  sitting  with  his  head  in 
his  hands  sobbing  in  the  little  bookshop.  Since  then  every- 
thing had  happened.  He,  Peter,  had  had  success,  love, 
position,  comfort — the  Gods  had  poured  everything  into  his 
hands — and  now,  to  his  amazement  as  he  sat  there,  in  the 
little  room  opposite  his  huge  fantastic  friend  he  was  almost 
regretting  all  those  glorious  things  that  had  come  to  him  and 
was  wishing  himself  back  in  the  dark  little  bookshop — 
dark,  but  lighted  with  the  fire  of  Mr.  Zanti's  amazing  ad- 
ventures. 

But  there  was  more  than  this  in  his  thoughts.  As  he 
looked  at  Mr.  Zanti,  at  his  wild  black  locks,  his  flaming 
cheeks,  his  rolling  eyes,  his  large  red  hands,  he  was  aware 
suddenly  that  Clare  would  not  appreciate  him.  It  was 
the  first  time  since  his  marriage  that  there  had  been  any 
question  of  Clare's  criticism,  but  now  he  knew,  with  abso- 
lute certainty,  that  Mr.  Zanti  was  entirely  outside  Clare's 
range  of  possible  persons.  For  the  first  time,  almost  with 
a  secret  start  of  apprehension,  he  knew  that  there  were 
things  that  she  did  not  understand. 

"  I'm  afraid,"  he  said,  "  that  my  wife  is  dressing.  But 
when  you  come  back  you  shall  meet  of  course — that  will  be 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  321 

delightful."  And  then  he  went  on — "  But  I  simply  can't 
tell  you  how  splendid  it  is  to  look  at  you  again.  Lots  of 
things  have  happened  to  me  since  I  saw  you,  of  course,  but 
I'm  just  the  same — " 

Whilst  he  was  speaking  his  voice  had  become  eager,  his 
eyes  bright — he  began  to  pace  the  room  excitedly — 

"  Oh,  Zanti !  .  .  .  the  days  we  used  to  have.  I  suppose 
the  times  I've  been  having  lately  had  put  it  all  out  of  my 
head,  but  now,  with  you  here,  it's  all  as  though  it  happened 
yesterday.  The  day  we  left  Cornwall,  you  and  I — the  fog 
when  we  got  to  London  .  .  .  everything."  He  drew  a 
great  breath  and  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room  listening 
to  the  rain  racing  down  the  pipes  beyond  the  dark  windows. 

Mr.  Zanti,  getting  up  ponderously,  placed  his  hands  on 
Peter's  shoulders. 

"  Still  the  same  Peter,"  he  said.  "  Now  I  know  zat  I 
go  'appy.  Zat  is  all  I  came  for — I  said  I  must  zee  my 
Peter  because  Stephen — " 

"  Stephen — "  broke  in  Peter  sharply. 

"  Yes,  our  Stephen.  He  goes  with  me  now  to  Spain. 
He  is  now,  until  to-night,  in  London  but  he  will  not  come 
to  you  because  'e's  afraid — " 

"Afraid.?" 

"  Yes  'e  says  you  are  married  now  and  'ave  a  lovely 
'ouse  and  'e  says  you  'ave  not  written  for  a  ver'  long  time, 
and  'e  just  asked  me  to  give  you  'is  love  and  say  that  when 
'e  comes  back  from  Spain,  per'aps — " 

"  Stephen ! "  Peter's  voice  was  sharp  with  distress. 
"  Zanti,  where  is  he  now  ?     I  must  go  and  see  him  at  once." 

"  No,  'e  'as  gone  already  to  the  boat.  I  follow  'im." 
Then  Mr.  Zanti  added  in  a  softer  voice — "  So  when  he  tell 
me  that  you  'ave  not  written  I  say  '  Ah !  Mr.  Peter  for- 
gets his  old  friends,'  and  I  was  zorry  but  I  say  that  I  will 
go  and  make  sure.  And  now  I  am  glad,  ver'  glad,  and 
Stephen  will  be  glad  too.     All  is  well — " 

"  Oh !  I  am  ashamed.  I  don't  know  what  has  come 
over  me  all  this  time.  But  wait — I  will  write  a  note  that 
you  shall  take  to  him  and  then — when  he  comes  back 
from  Spain — " 

He  went  to  his  table  and  began  to  write  eagerly,  Mr. 
Zanti,  meanwhile,  went  round  the  room  on  tip-toe^  ezamin- 


822  FORTITUDE 

ing  everything,  sometimes  shaking  his  huge  head  in  disap- 
proval, sometimes   nodding  his   appreciation. 
Peter  wrote: 

Dear,  Dear  Stephen, — /  am  furious,  I  hate  myself. 
What  can  I  have  been  doing  all  this  time?  I  have  thought 
of  you  often,  but  my  marriage  and  all  the  new  life  have 
made  me  selfish,  and  always  I  put  off  writing  to  you  be- 
cause I  thought  the  quiet  hour  would  come  to  me — atid  it 
has  never  come.  But  I  have  no  excuse — except  that  in  the 
real  part  of  myself  I  love  you,  just  the  same  as  ever — and 
it  will  be  always  the  same.  I  have  been  bewildered,  I  think, 
by  all  the  things  that  have  happened  to  me  during  this  last 
year — but  I  will  never  be  bewildered  again.  Write  to  me 
from  Spain  and  then  as  soon  as  you  come  back  I  icill  make 
amends  for  my  wickedness.  I  am  now  and  always.  Your 
loving  Peter. 

Mr.  Zanti  took  the  letter. 

"  How  is  he.''  "  asked  Peter. 

"  I  found  'im — down  in  Treliss.  He  wasn't  'appy.  'E 
was  thinking  of  that  woman..  And  then  'e  was  all  alone. 
'E  got  some  work  at  a  farm  out  at  Pendragon  and  'e  was 
just  goin'  there  when  I  came  along  and  made  'im  come  to 
Spain.     'E  was  thinkin'  of  you  a  lot,  Peter." 

Mr.  Zanti  cast  one  more  look  round  the  room.  "  Pretty," 
he  said.  "  Pretty.  But  not  my  sort  of  place.  Too  many 
walls — all  too  close  in." 

In  the  hall  he  said  once  more — a  little  plaintively: — 

"  I  should  like  to  see  your  lady,  Peter,"  and  then  he 
went  on  hurriedly,  "  But  don't  you  go  and  disturb  her — 
not  for  anything — /  understand.  .  .  ." 

And,  M-ith  his  finger  on  his  lip,  wrapt  in  the  deepest 
mystery,  he  departed  into  the  rain. 

As  the  door  closed  behind  him,  Peter  felt  a  wave  of  chill, 
unhappy  loneliness.  He  turned  back  into  the  cheerful  lit- 
tle hall  and  heard  Clare  singing  upstairs.  He  knew  that 
they  were  going  to  have  a  delightful  little  dinner,  that, 
afterwards,  they  would  be  at  a  party  where  every  one  would 
be  pleased  to  see  them — he  knew  that  the  evening  in  front 
of  bim  should  be  wholly  charming  .  .  .  and  yet  he  was  un- 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  323 

easy.  He  felt  now  as  though  he  ought  to  resign  his  even- 
ing, climb  to  his  little  room  and  work  at  "  The  Stone 
House."  And  yet  what  connection  could  that  possibly  have 
with  Mr.  Zanti.!* 

His  uneasiness  had  begun,  he  thought,  after  his  visit  to 
Brockett's.  It  seemed  to  him  as  he  went  upstairs  to  dress 
that  the  world  was  too  full  of  too  many  things  and  that 
his  outlook  on  it  all  was  confused. 

Throughout  dinner  this  uneasiness  remained  with  him. 
Had  he  been  less  occupied  with  his  own  thoughts  he  would 
have  noticed  that  Clare  was  not  herself;  at  first  she  talked 
excitedly  without  waiting  for  his  answers — there  were  her 
usual  enthusiasms  and  excitements.  Everything  in  the 
day's  history  had  been  "enchanting"  or  "  horrible,"  as  a 
rule  she  waited  for  him  to  act  up  to  her  ecstasies  and  ab- 
horrencies;  to-night  she  talked  as  though  she  had  no  audi- 
ence but  were  determined  to  fill  up  time.  Then  suddenly 
she  was  silent;  her  eyes  looked  tired  and  into  them  there 
crept  a  strange  secret  little  shudder  as  though  she  were 
afraid  of  some  thought  or  mysterious  knowledge.  She 
looked  now  like  a  Httle  girl  who  knew,  that  to-morrow — 
the  inevitable  to-morrow — she  must  go  to  the  dentist's  to 
be  tortured. 

The  last  part  of  the  meal  was  passed  in  silence.  After- 
wards she  came  into  his  study  and  sat  curled  upon  the 
floor  at  his  feet  watching  him  smoke. 

She  thought  as  she  looked  up  at  him,  that  something 
had  happened  to  make  him  younger.  She  had  never  seen 
him  as  young  as  he  was  to-night — and  then  because  his 
thoughts  were  far  away  and  because  her  own  troubled  her 
she  made  a  diversion.     She  said: — 

"  Who  was  that  extraordinary  man  you  were  talking  to 
this  evening  ?  " 

He  came  back,  with  a  jerk,  from  Stephen. 

"What  man?" 

"  Why  the  man  with  all  the  black  hair  and  a  funny 
squash  hat.     I  saw  Sarah  let  him  in." 

"  Ah,  that,"  said  Peter,  looking  down  at  her  tenderly, 
"  that  was  a  great  friend  of  mine." 

She  moved  her  head  away. 

"Don't  touch  my  hair,  Peter — ^it's  all  been  arranged  for 


824  FORTITUDE 

the  party.  A  friend  of  yours?  What!  That  horrible 
looking  man  ?  Oh !  I  suppose  he  was  one  of  those  dread- 
ful people  you  knew  in  the  slums  or  in  Cornwall." 

Peter  saw  Mr.  Zanti's  dear  friendly  face,  like  a  moon, 
staring  at  him,  and  heard  his  warm  husky  voice  "  Peter, 
my  boy.  .  .  ." 

He  moved  a  little  impatiently. 

"  Look  here,  old  girl,  you  mustn't  call  him  that.  He's 
one  of  the  very  best  friends  I've  ever  had — and  I've  been 
rather  pulled  up  lately — ever  since  that  night  you  sent  me 
to  Brockett's.  I've  felt  ashamed  of  myself.  All  my  hap- 
piness and — you — and  everything  have  made  me  forget  my 
old  friends  and  that  won't  do." 

She  laughed.  "  And  now  I  suppose  you're  going  to  neg- 
lect me  for  them — for  horrid  people  like  that  man  who  came 
to-night." 

Her  voice  was  shaking  a  little — he  saw  that  her  hands 
were  clenched  on  her  lap.  He  looked  down  at  her  in  as- 
tonishment. 

"  My  dear  Clare,  what  do  you  mean  ?  How  could  you 
say  a  thing  like  that  even  in  jest.''     You  know — " 

She  broke  in  upon  him  almost  fiercely — "  It  wasn't  jest. 
I  meant  what  I  said.  I  hate  all  these  earlier  people  you 
used  to  know — and  now,  after  our  being  so  happy  all  this 
time,  you're  going  to  take  them  up  again  and  make  the 
place  impossible — " 

"  Look  here,  Clare,  you  mustn't  speak  of  them  like  that 
— they're  my  friends  and  they've  got  to  be  treated  as  such." 
His  voice  was  suddenly  stern.  "  And  by  the  way  as  we 
are  talking  about  it  I  don't  think  it  was  very  kind  of  you 
to  tell  me  nothing  at  all  about  poor  Norah's  being  so  ill. 
She  asked  you  to  tell  me  and  you  never  said  a  word.  That 
wasn't  very  kind  of  you." 

"  I  did  speak  to  you  about  it  but  you  forgot — " 

"  I  don't  think  you  did — I  am  quite  sure  that  I  should 
not  have  forgotten — " 

"  Oh,  of  course  you  contradict  me.  Anyhow  there's  no 
reason  to  drag  Norah  Monogue  into  this.  The  matter  is 
perfectly  clear.  I  will  not  have  dirty  old  men  like  that 
coming  into  the  house." 

"  Clare,  you  shall  not  speak  of  my  friends — " 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  326 

"  Oh,  shan't  I  ?  When  I  married  you  I  didn't  marry 
all  your  old  horrid  friends — " 

"  Drop  it,  Clare — or  I  shall  be  angry — " 

She  sprang  to  her  feet,  faced  him.  He  had  never  in  his 
life  seen  such  fury.  She  stood  with  her  little  body  drawn 
to  its  full  height,  her  hands  clenched,  her  breast  heaving 
under  her  white  evening  dress,  her  eyes  glaring — 

"  You  shan't !  You  shan't !  I  won't  have  any  of  them 
here.  I  hate  Cornwall  and  all  its  nasty  people  and  I  hate 
Brockett's  and  all  those  people  you  knew  there.  When 
you  married  me  you  gave  them  all  up — all  of  them.  And 
if  you  have  them  here  I  won't  stay  in  the  house — I'll  leave 
you.  All  that  part  of  your  life  is  nothing  to  do  with  me. 
Nothing — and  I  simply  won't  have  it.  You  can  do  what 
you  like  but  you  choose  between  them  and  me — you  can  go 
back  to  your  old  life  if  you  like  but  you  go  without  me !  " 

She  burst  from  the  room,  banging  the  door  behind  her. 
She  had  behaved  exactly  like  a  small  child  in  the  nursery. 
As  he  looked  at  the  door  he  was  bewildered — whence  sud- 
denly had  this  figure  sprung?  It  was  some  one  whom  he 
did  not  know.  He  could  not  reconcile  it  with  the  dignified 
Clare,  proud  as  a  queen,  crossing  a  ball-room  or  the  dear 
beloved  Clare  nestling  into  a  corner  of  his  arm-chair,  her 
face  against  his,  or  the  gentle  friendly  Clare  listening  to 
some  story  of  distress. 

The  fury,  the  tempest  of  it!  It  was  as  though  every- 
thing in  the  room  had  been  broken.  And  he,  with  his 
glorious,  tragical  youth  felt  that  the  end  of  the  world  had 
come.  This  was  the  conclusion  of  life — no  more  cause  for 
living,  no  more  friendship  or  comfort  or  help  anywhere. 
Clare  had  said  those  things  to  him.  He  stood,  for  ten 
minutes  there,  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  without  moving 
— his  face  white,  his  eyes  full  of  pain. 

Sarah  came  to  tell  him  that  the  hansom  was  there.  He 
moved  into  the  hall  with  the  intention  of  sending  it  away; 
no  party  for  him  to-night — when,  to  his  amazement  he 
saw  Clare  coming  slowly  down  the  stairs,  her  cloak  on,  but- 
toning her  gloves. 

She  passed  him  without  a  word  and  got  into  the  hansom. 
He  took  his  hat  and  coat,  gave  the  4river  the  address,  and 
climbed  in  beside  her. 


826  FORTITUDE 

Once  as  they  drove  he  put  out  his  hand,  touched  her 
dress  and  said — "  Clare  dear — " 

She  made  no  reply,  but  sat  looking,  with  her  eyes  large 
and  black  in  her  little  white  face,  steadfastly  in  front  of 
her. 


Lady  Luncon  was  a  rich,  good-natured  woman  who  had 
recently  published  a  novel  and  was  anxious  to  hear  it 
praised,  therefore  she  gave  a  party.  Originally  a  manu- 
facturer's daughter,  she  had  conquered  a  penniless  baronet 
— spent  twenty  years  in  the  besieging  of  certain  drawing- 
rooms  and  now,  tired  of  more  mundane  worlds,  fixed  her 
attention  upon  the  Arts.  She  was  a  completely  stupid 
woman,  her  novel  had  been  exceedingly  vulgar,  but  her 
good  heart  and  a  habit  of  speaking  vaguely  in  capital  let- 
ters secured  her  attention. 

When  Clare  and  Peter  arrived  people  were  filling  her 
drawing-rooms,  overflowing  on  to  the  stairs  and  pouring 
into  the  supper  room.  Some  one,  very  far  away,  was  sing- 
ing "  Mon  coeur  s'ouvre  a  ta  voix,"  a  babel  of  voices  rose 
about  Clare  and  Peter  on  every  side,  every  one  was  flung 
against  every  one;  heat  and  scent,  the  crackle  and  rustle 
of  clothes,  the  soft  voices  of  the  men  and  sharp  strident 
voices  of  the  women  gave  one  the  sensation  of  imminent 
suffocation;  people  with  hot  red  faces,  unable  to  move  at 
all,  flung  agonised  glances  at  the  door  as  though  the  en- 
trance of  one  more  person  must  mean  death  and  disaster. 

There  were,  Peter  soon  discovered,  three  topics  of  con- 
versation: one  was  their  hostess'  novel  and  this  was  only 
discussed  when  Lady  Luncon  was  herself  somewhere  at 
hand — the  second  topic  concerned  the  books  of  somebody 
who  had,  most  unjustly  it  appeared,  been  banned  by  the 
libraries  for  imjiropriety,  and  here  opinions  were  divided 
as  to  •whether  the  author  would  gain  by  the  advertisement 
or  lose  by  loss  of  library  circulation.  Thirdly,  there  was 
a  new  young  man  who  had  written  a  novel  about  the  love 
afl'airs  of  a  crocus  and  a  violet — it  was  amazingly  improper, 
full  of  poetry — "  right  back,"  as  somebody  said  "  to  Na- 
ture."    Moreover  there  was  much  talk  about  Form.     "  Here 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  327 

is  the  new  thing  in  fiction  that  we  are  looking  for  .  .  ." 
also  "  Quite  a  young  man — oh  yes,  only  about  eighteen  and 
so  modest.     You  would  never  think  .  .  ." 

His  name  was  Rondel  and  Peter  saw  him,  for  a  moment, 
as  the  crowds  parted,  standing,  with  a  tall,  grim,  elderly 
woman,  apparently  his  mother,  beside  him.  He  was  look- 
ing frightened  and  embarrassed  and  stood  up  straight 
against  the  wall  as  though  afraid  lest  some  one  should 
come  and  snatch  him  away. 

But  Peter  saw  the  world  in  a  dream.  He  walked  about, 
with  Clare  beside  him,  and  talked  to  many  people;  then 
she  was  stopped  by  some  one  whom  she  knew  and  he  went 
on  alone.  Now  there  had  come  back  to  him  the  old  ter- 
ror. If  he  went  back,  after  this  was  over,  and  Clare  was 
still  angry  with  him,  he  did  not  know  what  he  would  do. 
He  was  afraid.   .  .  . 

He  smiled,  talked,  laughed  and,  in  his  chest,  there  was  a 
sharp  acute  pain  like  a  knife.  He  had  still  with  him  that 
feeling  that  nothing  in  life  now  was  worth  while  and  there 
followed  on  that  a  wild  impulse  to  let  go,  to  fling  off  the 
restraints  that  he  had  retained  now  for  so  long  and  with 
such  bitter  determination. 

He  wanted  to  cast  aside  this  absurd  party,  to  hurry 
home  alone  with  Clare,  to  sit  alone  with  her  in  the  little 
house  and  to  reach  the  divine  moment  when  reconciliation 
came  and  they  were  closer  to  one  another  than  ever  before 
• — and  then  there  was  the  horrible  suggestion  that  there 
would  be  no  reconciliation,  that  Clare  would  make  of  this 
absurd  quarrel  an  eternal  breach,  that  things  would  never 
be  right  again. 

He  looked  back  and  saw  Clare  smiling  gaily,  happily, 
at  some  friend.  He  saw  her  as  she  had  faced  him,  fu- 
riously, an  hour  earlier  ...  oh  God!  If  she  should  never 
care   for  him  again ! 

He  recognised  many  friends.  There  were  the  two 
young  Galleons,  Millicent  and  Percival,  looking  as  impor- 
tant and  mysterious  as  possible,  taxing  their  brains  for 
something  clever  to  say.  ... 

"  Ah,  that's  Life ! "  Peter  heard  Percival  say  to  some 
one.  Young  fools,  he  thought  to  himself,  let  them  have 
my  trouble  and  then  they  may  talk.     But  they  were  nice 


8«8  FORTITUDE 

to  him  when  he  came  up  to  them.  The  author  of  "  Reuben 
Hallard/'  even  though  he  did  look  like  a  sailor  on  leave,  was 
worth  respecting — moreover,  father  liked  him  and  believed 
in  him — nevertheless  he  was  just  a  tiny  bit  "last  year's 
sensation."  "  Ha\'e  you  read,"  said  Perci\'al  eagerly, 
"  '  The  Violet's  Redemption  '^  It  rcnlly  is  the  most  tremen- 
dous thing — all  about  a  violet.  There's  the  fellow  who 
wrote  it  over  there — young  chap  standing  with  his  back  to 
the  wall.  .  .  ." 

There  was  also  with  them  young  Tony  Gale  who  was  a 
friend  of  Alice  Galleon.  He  was  nice-looking,  eager  and 
enthusiastic.  Rather  too  enthusiastic,  Peter,  who  did  not 
like  him,  considered.  Full  of  the  joy  of  life;  everything 
was  "  topping  "  and  "  ripping."  "  I  can't  understand,"  he 
would  say,  "  why  people  find  life  dull.  I  never  find  it 
dull.     It's  the  most  wonderful  glorious  thing — " 

"  Ah,  but  then  you're  so  young,"  he  always  expected  his 
companions  to  say;  and  the  thing  that  pleased  him  most 
of  all  was  to  hear  some  one  declare — "  Tony  Gale's  such  a 
puzzle — sometimes  he  seems  only  eighteen  and  then  sud- 
denly he's  fifty." 

It  was  rumoured  that  he  had  once  been  in  love  with 
Alice  Galleon  when  she  had  been  Alice  du  Cane — and  that 
they  had  nearly  made  a  match  of  it;  but  he  was  certainly 
now  married  to  a  charming  girl  whom  he  had  seen  in  Corn- 
wall and  the  two  young  things  were  considered  delightful 
by  the  whole  of  Chelsea. 

Tony  Gale  had  with  him  a  man  called  James  Maradick 
whom  Peter  had  met  before  and  liked.  Maradick  was 
forty-two  or  three,  large,  rather  heavy  in  build  and  expres- 
sion and  very  taciturn.  He  was  in  business  in  the  city, 
but  had  been  drawn,  Peter  knew  not  how,  into  the  literary 
world  of  London.  He  was  often  to  be  found  at  dinner 
parties  and  evening  "  squashes  "  silent,  observant  and  gen- 
erally alone.  Many  people  thought  him  dull,  but  Peter 
liked  him  partly  because  of  his  reserve  and  partly  because 
of  his  enthusiasm  for  Cornwall.  Cornwall  seemed  to  be 
the  only  subject  that  could  stir  Maradick  into  excitement, 
and  when  Cornwall  was  under  discussion  the  whole  man 
woke  into  sudden  stir  and  emotion. 

To-night,  with  his  almost  cynical  observance  of  the  emo» 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  329 

tions  and  excitement  that  surged  about  him,  he  seemed  to 
Peter  the  one  man  possible  in  the  whole  gathering. 

"  Look  here,  Maradiek,  let's  get  somewhere  out  of  this 
crush  and  have  a  cigarette." 

People  were  all  pouring  into  supper  now  and  Peter  saw 
his  wife  in  the  distance,  on  Bobby  Galleon's  arm.  They 
found  a  little  conservatory  deserted  now  and  strangely  quiet 
after  the  din  of  the  other  rooms:  here  they  sat  down. 

Maradick  was  capable  of  sitting,  quite  happily  for  hours, 
without  saying  anything  at  all.  For  some  time  they  were 
both  silent. 

At  last  Peter  said:  "By  jove,  Maradick,  yours  is  a 
fortunate  sort  of  life — ^just  going  into  the  city  every  day, 
coming  back  to  your  wife  in  the  evening — no  stupid  trou- 
bles that  come  from  imagining  things  that  aren't  there — " 

"  How    do    you    know    I    don't.''  "    answered    Maradick 

quietly.     "  Imagination    hasn't   anything   to    do   with   one's 

profession.     I  expect  there's  as  much  imagination  amongst 

/the  Stock  Exchange  men  as  there  is  with  you  literary  peo- 

'  pie — only  it's  expressed  differently." 

"  What  do  you  do,"  said  Peter,  "  if  it  ever  gets  too  much 
for  you.''  " 

"Do?  How  do  you  mean?" 
/^  "  Well  suppose  you're  feeling  all  the  time  that  one  little 
thing  more,  one  little  word  or  some  one  coming  in  or  a 
window  breaking — anything  will  upset  the  equilibrium  of 
everything?  Supposing  you're  out  with  all  your  might  to 
keep  things  sane  and  to  prevent  your  life  from  swinging 
back  into  all  the  storm  and  uncertainty  that  it  was  in  once 
before,  and  supposing  you  feel  that  there  are  a  whole  lot 
)  of  things  trying  to  get  you  to  swing  back,  what's  the  best  / 
thing  to  do?  " 

"  Why,  hold  on,  hold  on — " 
^^  "  How  do  you  mean?  "  >^ 

y^      "  Fortitude — Courage.     Clinging  on  with  your  nails,  set-   y 
C      ting  your  teeth."  / 

Peter  was  surprised  at  the  man's  earnestness.  The  two 
of  them  sitting  there  in  that  lonely  deserted  little  con- 
servatory were  instantly  aware  of  some  common  experience. 

Maradick  put  his  hand  on  Peter's  knee. 

"  Westcott,  you're  young,  but  I  know  the  kind  of  thing 


830  FORTITUDE 

you  mean.     Believe  me  that  it's  no  silly  nonsense  to  talk 

<of  the  Devil — the  Devil  is  as  real  and  personal  as  you  and\ 
I,  and  he's  got  his  agents  in  every  sort  and  kind  of  place.   \ 
If  he  once  gets  his  net  out  for  you  then  you'll  want  all  your  y' 
courage.     I    know,"   he   went  on   sinking  his   voice,   "  there 
Vas   a   time   I   had  once  in   Cornwall   when   I   was  brought 
pretty    close   to   things    of   that   sort — it   doesn't   leave   you 
the  same  afterwards.     There's   a  place  down  in  Cornwall 
called  Treliss.  .  .  ." 

"  Treliss !  "  Peter  almost  shouted.  "  Why  that's  where 
I  come  from.     I  was  born  there — that's  my  town — " 

Before  Maradick  could  reply  Bobby  Galleon  burst  into 
the  conservatory.  "  Oh,  there  you  are — I've  been  looking 
for  you  everywhere.  How  are  you,  Maradick?  Look  here, 
Peter,  you've  got  to  come  down  to  supper  with  us.  We've 
got  a  table — Alice,  Clare,  Millicent,  Percival,  Tony  Gale 
and  his  wife  and  you  and  I — and — one  other — an  old 
friend  of  yours,  Peter." 

"  An  old  friend  ?  "  said  Peter,  getting  up  from  his  chair 
and  trying  to  look  as  though  he  were  not  furious  with 
Bobby   for  the  interruption. 

"  Yes — you'll  never  guess,  if  I  give  you  a  hundred 
guesses — it's  most  exciting — come  along — " 

Peter  was  led  away.  As  he  moved  through  the  dazzling, 
noisy  rooms  he  was  conscious  that  there,  in  the  quiet,  dark 
little  conservatory,  Maradick  was  sitting,  motionless,  seeing 
Treliss. 


IV 

On  his  way  down  to  the  supper  room  he  was  filled  with 
annoyance  at  the  thought  of  his  interrupted  conversation. 
He  might  never  have  his  opportunity  again.  Maradick  was 
so  reserved  a  fellow  and  took  so  few  into  his  confidence — 
also  he  would,  in  all  probability,  be  ashamed  to-morrow  of 
having  spoken  at  all. 

But  to  Peter  at  that  moment  the  world  about  him  was 
fantastic  and  unreal.  It  seemed  to  him  that  at  certain  pe- 
riods in  his  life  he  was  suddenly  confronted  with  a  fellow 
creature  who  perceived  life  as  he  perceived  it.  There  were 
certain  persons  who  could  not  leave  life  alone — they  must 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  831 

always  be  seeing  it  as  a  key  to  something  wider,  bigger  al- 
together. This  was  nothing  to  do  with  Christianity  or  any 
creed  whatever,  because  Creeds  implied  Certainty  and 
Definition  of  Knowledge,  whereas  Peter  and  the  others  like 
him  did  not  know  for  what  they  were  searching.  Again, 
they  were  not  Mystics  because  Mysticism  needed  a  definite 
removal  from  this  world  before  any  other  world  were  pos- 
sible. No,  they  were  simply  Explorers  and  one  traced 
a  member  of  the  order  on  the  instant.  There  had  been  al- 
ready in  Peter's  life.  Frosted  Moses,  Stephen,  Mr.  Zanti, 
Norah  Monogue,  and  now  suddenly  there  was  Maradick. 
These  were  people  who  would  not  laugh  at  his  terror  of 
Scaw  House,  at  his  odd  belief  that  his  father  was  always 
trying  to  draw  him  back  to  Treliss.  .  .  . 

As  he  entered  the  supper-room  and  saw  Clare  sitting  at 

/a  distant  table,  he  knew  that  his  wife  would  never  be  an 

/   Explorer.     For    her    Fires    and    Walls,    for    her    no    ques- 

/      tions,     no     untidiness     moral     or     physical — the     Explorer 

f       travelled  ever  with  his  life  in  his  hands — Clare  believed  in 

^     the  Stay-at-homes. 

The    great    dining-room    was    filled    with    Stay-at-homes. 

/  One  saw  it  in  their  eyes,  in  the  flutter  of  useless  and  tired 

words  that  rose  and  fell;  all  the  souls  in  that  room  were 

cushioned  and  were  happy  that  it  was  so.     The  Rider  on 

the  Lion  was  beyond  the  Electric  Lights — on  the  dark  hill, 

\    over  the  darker  river,  under  the  stars.     Somebody  pulled  a 

/   cracker  and  put  on  a  paper  cap.     He  was  a  stout  man  with 

J    a  bald  head  and   the  back  of  his  neck  rippled  with   fat. 

(     He  had  tiny  eyes. 

"  Look  at  Mr.  Horset,"  cried  the  woman  next  to  him — 
"Isn't  he   absurd?" 

Peter  found  at  the  table  in  the  corner  Alice,  Clare,  Milli- 
cent  and  Percival  Galleon,  Tony  Gale  and  his  wife,  wait- 
ing. There  was  also  a  man  standing  by  Alice's  chair  and 
he  watched  Peter  with  amused  eyes. 

He  held  out  his  hand  and  smiled.  "  How  do  you  do, 
Westcott.''  "  he  said.  Then,  with  the  sound  of  his  voice,  the 
soft  almost  caressing  tilt  of  it,  Peter  knew  who  it  was. 
His  mind  flew  back  to  a  day,  years  ago,  when  he  had  flung 
himself  on  the  ground  and  cried  his  soul  out  because  some 
one  had  gone  away.  .  .  . 


SSft  FORTITUDE 

"Cards!"  he  cried.     "Of  all  wonderful  things!" 

Cards  of  Dawson's — Cards,  the  magnetic,  the  brilliant, 
Card  with  his  World  and  his  Society  and  now  slim  and 
dark  and  romantic  as  ever,  making  every  one  else  in  the 
room  shabby  beside  him,  so  that  Bobby's  white  waistcoat 
was  instantly  seen  to  be  hanging  loosely  above  his  shirt 
and  Peter's  trousers  were  short,  and  even  the  elegant  Per- 
cival  had  scarcely  covered  with  perfect  equality  the  ends 
of  his  white  tie. 

Instantly  as  though  the  intervening  years  had  never  been, 
Bobby  took  his  second  place  beside  Cards'  glory — even  Per- 
cival's  intention  of  securing  the  wonderful  Mr.  Rondel, 
author  of  "  The  Violet's  Redemption,"  for  their  table,  failed 
of  its  effect. 

They  were  enough.  They  didn't  want  anybody  else — 
Room  for  Mr.  Cardillac! 

And  he  seized  it.  Just  as  he  would  have  seized  it  years 
ago  at  school  so  he  seized  it  now.  Their  table  was  caught 
into  the  most  dazzling  series  of  adventures.  Cards  had 
been  everywhere,  seen  everybody  and  everj'thing — seen  it 
all,  moreover,  with  the  right  kind  of  gaiety,  with  an  appre- 
ciation that  was  intelligent  and  also  humorous.  There  was 
humour  one  moment  and  pathos  the  next — deep  feeling  and 
the  wittiest  cynicism. 

They  were  all  swung  about  Europe  and  with  Cards  at 
their  head  pranced  through  the  cities  of  the  world.  Mean- 
while Peter  fancied  that  once  or  twice  Clare  flung  him  a 
little  glance  of  appeal  to  as':  for  forgiveness — and  once 
they  looked  up  and  smiled  at  one  another.  A  tiny  smile 
but  it  meant  everything. 

"Oh!  won't  we  have  a  reconciliation  afterwards?  How 
could  I  have  said  those  things.^  Don't  we  just  love  one 
another  ?  " 

When  they  went  upstairs  again  Peter  and  Cards  ex- 
changed a  word: 

"You'll  come  and  see  us?" 

"  My  dear  old  man,  I  should  just  think  so.  This  is  the 
first  time  I've  been  properly  in  I^ondon  for  years  and  now 
I'm  going  to  stay.  Fancy  you  married  and  successful  and 
here  am  I  still  the  rolling-stone !  " 

"  You !     Why  you  can  do  anything !  " 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  S33 

"  Can't  write  *  Reuben  Hallard/  old  boy  .  .  ."  and  so, 
with  a  laugh,  they  parted. 

In  the  cab,  afterwards,  Clare's  head  was  buried  in  Peter's 
coat,  and  she  sobbed  her  heart  out.  "  How  I  could  have 
been  such  a  beast,  Peter,  Peter !  " 

"  Darling,  it  was  nothing." 

"  Oh,  but  it  was !  It  shall  never,  never  happen  again 
,  .  .  but  I  was  frightened — " 

"  Frightened !  " 

"  Yes,  I  always  think  some  one's  going  to  take  you 
away.  I  don't  .understand  all  those  other  people.  They 
frighten  me — I  want  you  to  myself,  just  you  and  I — al- 
ways." 

"  But  nobody  can  take  me  away — nobody — " 

The  cab  jolted  along — her  hand  was  on  his  knee — and 
every  now  and  again  a  lamp  lighted  her  face  for  him  and 
then  dropped  it  back  into  darkness. 

By  the  sharp  pressure  of  her  hand  he  knew  that  she  was 
moved  by  an  intensity  of  feeling,  swayed  now  by  one  of 
those  moods  that  came  to  her  so  strangely  that  it  seemed 
that  they  belonged  to  another  personality. 

"  Look  .  .  .  Peter.  I'm  seeing  clearly  as  I  think  I 
never  have  before.  I'm  afraid — not  because  of  you — but 
because  of  myself.  If  you  knew — "  here  his  hand  came 
down  and  found  hers — "  if  you  knew  how  I  despise  myself, 
my  real  self.  I've  been  spoilt  always,  always,  always. 
I've  always  known  it.  My  real  self  is  ashamed  of  it., 
But  there's  another  side  of  me  that  comes  down  sud-', 
denly  and  hides  all  that — and  then — when  that  happens  ' 
— I  just  want  to  get  what  I  want  and  not  to  be  hurt 
and  .  .  ."  she  pressed  closer  against  him  and  went  on  in 
a  whisper. 

"  Peter,  I  shall  always  care  for  you  more  than  any  one— 
always  whatever  happens.  But  think,  a  time  will  come — • 
I  know  it — when  you'll  have  to  watch  me,  to  keep  me  by 
you,  and  even  let  your  work  go — everything,  just  for  a 
time  until  I'm  safe.  I  suppose  that  moment  comes  to  most 
women  in  their  married  lives.  But  to  me,  when  it  happens, 
it  will  be  worse  than  for  most  women  because  I've  always 
had  my  way.  You  mustn't  let  me  have  my  way  then — • 
simply  clutch  me,  be  cruel,  brutal,  anything  only  don't  let 


8S4.  FORTITUDE 

me  go.  Then,  if  you  keep  me  through  that,  you'll  always 
keep  me." 

To  Peter  it  was  almost  as  though  she  were  talking  in  her 
sleep,  something,  there  in  the  old,  lumbering  cab  that  was 
given  to  her  by  some  one  else  to  say  something  to  which 
she  herself  would  not  gi\'e  credit. 

"  That's  all  right,  you  darling,  you  darling,  you  darling." 
He  covered  her  face,  her  eyes  with  kisses.  "  I'll  never  let 
you  go — never."     He  felt  her  quiver  a  little  under  his  arms. 

"  Don't  mind,  Peter,  my  horrible,  beastly  character. 
Just  keep  me  for  a  little,  train  me — and  then  later  I'll  be 
such  a  wife  to  you,  such  a  wife!  " 

Then  she  drew  his  head  down.  His  lips  touched  her 
body  just  above  her  dress,  where  her  cloak  parted. 

She  whispered: 

"  There's   something  else." 

She  raised  her  face  from  his  coat  and  looked  up  at  him. 
Her  cheeks  were  stained  with  crying  and  her  eyes,  large 
and  dark,  held  him  furiously  as  though  he  were  the  one 
place  of  safety. 

He  caught  her  very  close. 

"What  is  it?  .  .  ." 

That  night,  long  after  he,  triumphant  with  the  glory  of 
her  secret,  had  fallen  asleep,  she  lay,  staring  into  the  dark, 
with  frightened  eyes. 


•     CHAPTER  IV 
BIRTH  OF  THE  HEIR 


PETER'S  child  was  born  on  a  night  of  fiost  when  the 
stars  were  hard  and  fierce  and  a  full  moon,  dull  gold, 
flung  high  shadows  upon  the  town. 

During  the  afternoon  the  fear  that  had  been  in  Clare's 
eyes  for  many  weeks  suddenly  flamed  into  terror — the  doc- 
tor was  sent  for  and  Peter  was  banished  from  the  room. 

Peter  looked  ludicrously,  pitifully  young  as  he  sat, 
through  the  evening,  in  his  room  at  the  top  of  the  house, 
staring  in  front  of  him,  his  face  grey  with  anxiety,  his 
broad  shoulders  set  back  as  though  ready  for  a  blow;  his 
strong  fingers  clutched  the  things  on  his  writing-table,  held 
them,  dropped  them,  just  like  the  hands  of  a  blind  man 
about  the  shining  surface,  tapping  the  wood. 

He  saw  her  always  as  he  had  seen  her  last  night  when 
she  had  caught  his  arm  crying — "  If  I  die,  Peter.  .  .  .  Oh, 
Peter,  if  I  die !  "  .  .  .  and  he  had  comforted  and  stroked 
her  hair,  warming  her  cold  fingers. 

How  young  she  was,  how  tiny  for  this  suff'ering — and 
it  was  he,  he  who  had  brought  it  upon  her!  Now,  she 
was  lying  in  her  bed,  as  he  had  once  seen  his  mother  lie, 
with  her  hair  spread  about  the  pillow,  her  hands  gripping 
the  sheets,  her  eyes  wide  and  black — the  vast^  hard  bed- 
room closing  her  in,  shutting  her  down — 

She  who  loved  comfort,  who  feared  any  pain,  who  would 
have  Life  safe  and  easy,  that  she  should  be  forced — 

The  house  was  very  still  about  him — no  sound  came  up 
to  him;  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  hush  was  deliberate. 
The  top  branches  of  the  trees  in  the  little  orchard  touched 
his  window  and  tapped  ever  and  again ;  a  fire  burnt  brightly, 
he  had  drawn  his  curtains  and  beyond  the  windows  the 
great  sheet  of  stars,  the  black  houses,  the  white  light  of 
the  moon. 

And  there,  before  him — what  mockery!  the  neat  pages 
of  "  The  Stone  House  "  now  almost  completed. 

335 


836  FORTITUDE 

He  stared  into  the  wall  and  saw  her  face,  her  red-gold 
hair  upon  the  pillow,  her  dark  staring  eyes — 

Once  the  nurse  came  to  him — Yes,  she  was  suffering,  but 
all  went  well  ...  it  would  be  about  midnight,  perhaps. 
There  was  no  cause  for  alarm.       .  . 

He  thought  that  the  nurse  looked  at  him  with  compas- 
sion. He  turned  fiercely  upon  Life  that  it  should  have 
brought  this  to  them  when  they  were  both  so  young. 

At  last,  about  ten  o'clock,  able  no  longer  to  endure  the 
silence  of  the  house — so  ominous — and  the  gentle  tap-tap 
of  the  branches  upon  the  pane  and  the  whispering  crackle 
of  the  fire,  he  went  out.  .  .  . 

A  cold  hard  unreal  world  received  him.  Down  Sloane 
Street  the  lines  of  yellow  lamps,  bending  at  last  until  they 
met  in  sharp  blue  distance,  were  soft  and  paisty  against  the 
outline  of  the  street,  the  houses  were  unreal  in  the  moon- 
light, a  few  people  passed  quickly,  their  footsteps  sharp  in 
the  frosty  air — all  the  little  painted  doors  of  Sloane  Street 
were  bUnd  and  secret. 

He  passed  through  Knightsbridge,  into  the  Park.  As 
the  black  trees  closed  him  in  the  fear  of  London  came, 
tumbling  upon  him.  He  remembered  that  day  when  he 
had  sat,  shivering,  on  a  seat  on  the  Embankment,  and  had 
heard  that  note,  sinister,  threatening,  through  the  noise 
and  clattering  traffic.  He  heard  it  again  now.  It  came 
from  the  heart  of  the  black  trees  that  lined  the  moonlit 
road,  a  whisper,  a  thread  of  sound  that  accompanied  him, 
pervaded  him,  threatened  him.  The  scaly  beast  knew  that 
another  victim  was  about  to  be  born — another  woman  was 
to  undergo  torture,  so  that  when  the  day  came  and  the  scaly 
beast  rose  from  its  sleep  then  there  would  be  one  more  to 
be  devoured. 

He,  Peter,  was  to  have  a  child.  He  had  longed  for  a 
child  ever  since  he  could  remember.  He  had  always  loved 
children — other  people's  children — but  to  ha^'e  one  of  his 
own !  .  .  .  To  have  something  that  was  his  and  Clare's  and 
theirs  alone,  to  have  its  love,  to  feel  that  it  depended  upon 
them  both,  to  watch  it,  to  tend  it — Life  could  have  no  gift 
like  that. 

But  now  the  child  was  hidden  from  him.  He  thought 
of  nothing  but  Clare,  of  her  suffering  and  terror,  of  her 


I 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  S3T 

■vraiting  there  so  helplessly  for  the  dreadful  moment  of  su- 
preme pain.  The  love  that  he  had  now  for  Clare  was 
something  more  tender,  more  devoted,  than  he  had  ever 
felt  for  any  human  being.  His  mind  flew  back  fiercely  to 
that  night  of  his  first  quarrel  when  she  had  told  him.  Now 
he  was  to  be  punished  for  his  heartlessness  and  cruelty  .  .  . 
by  her  loss. 

His  agony  and  terror  grew  as  he  paced  beneath  the  dark 
and  bending  trees.  He  sat  down  on  a  seat,  at  the  other 
end  of  which  was  a  little  man  with  a  bowler  hat,  spectacles 
and  his  coat  collar  turned  up.  He  was  a  shabby  little  man 
and  his  thin  bony  hands  beat  restlessly  upon  his  knees. 

The  little  man  said,  "  Good  evening,  sir." 

"  Good  evening,"  said  Peter,  staring  desperately  in  front 
of  him. 

"  It's  all  this  blasted  government — " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon — " 

"  This  blasted  government — This  income  tax  and 
all—" 

"  It's  more  than  that,"  said  Peter,  wishing  that  the  man 
■would  cease  beating  his  knees  with  his  hands — 

"  It's  them  blasted  stars — it's  Gawd.  That's  what  it  is. 
Curse  Gawd — that's  what  I  say — Curse  Gawd !  " 

"  What's  He  done }  "  said  Peter. 

"  I've  just  broken  in  my  wife's  'ead  with  a  poker. 
Killed  'er  I  expect — I  dunno — going  back  to  see  in  a  min- 
ute—" 

"Why  did  you  do  it.?" 

"  'Ad  to — always  nagging — that's  what  she  was — always 
nagging.  Wanted  things — all  sorts  o'  things — and  there 
were  always  children  coming — So  we  'ad  a  blasted  argy- 
ment  this  evening  and  I  broke  'er  'ead  open — Gawd  did  it 
— that's  what  I  say — " 

Peter  said  nothing. 

"  You  can  call  a  bloomin'  copper  if  you  want  to,"  the 
little  man  said. 

"  It's  no  business  of  mine,"  said  Peter  and  he  got  up 
and  left  him.  All  shadows — only  the  sinister  noise  that 
London  makes  is  real,  that  and  Clare's  suffering. 

He  left  the  Park  turned  into  Knightsbridge  and  came 
upon  a  toyshop.     The  shutters  had  not  been  put  up  and 


3G8  FORTITUDE 

the  lights  of  a  lamp  shone  full  upon  its  windows.  Against 
the  iron  railings  opposite  and  the  high  white  road  these 
toys  stood  with  sharp,  distinct  outline  behind  the  slanting 
light  of  the  glass.  There  were  dolls — a  fine  wedding  doll, 
orange  blossom,  lace  and  white  silk,  and  from  behind  it  all, 
the  sharp  pinched  features  and  black  beady  eyes  stared 
out.  .  .  .  There  was  a  Swiss  doll  with  bright  red  cheeks, 
red  and  green  clothing  and  shoes  with  shining  buckles. 
Then  there  were  the  more  ordinary  dolls — and  gradually 
down  the  length  of  the  window,  their  clothing  was  taken 
from  them  until  at  last  some  wooden  creatures  with  flaring 
cheeks  and  brazen  eyes  kicked  their  limbs  and  defied  the 
proprieties. 

He  would  be  a  Boy  ...  he  would  not  care  about 
dolls.  .  .  . 

There  were  soldiers — rows  and  rows  of  gleaming  soldiers. 
They  came  from  a  misty  distance  at  the  top  of  the  shop 
window,  came  marching  from  the  gates  of  some  dark, 
mediaeval  castle.  Their  swords  caught  the  lamp-light,  shin- 
ing in  a  line  of  silver  and  the  precision  with  which  they 
marched,  the  certainty  with  which  they  trod  the  little 
bridge  ,  .  .  ah,  these  were  the  fellows !  He  would  be  a 
Boy  .  .  .  soldiers  would  enchant  him !  He  should  have 
boxes,   boxes,  boxes ! 

There  were  many  other  things  in  the  window;  teddy 
bears  and  animals  with  soft  woolly  stomachs  and  fat  com- 
fortable legs — and  there  were  ugly,  modern  Horrors  with 
fat  bulging  faces  and  black  hair  erect  like  wire;  there  were 
little  devils  with  red  tails,  there  were  rabbits  that  rode 
bicycles  and  monkeys  that  climbed  trees.  There  were 
drums — big  drums  and  little  drums — trumpets  with  crim- 
son tassels,  and  in  one  corner  a  pyramid  of  balls,  balls  of 
every  colour,  and  at  the  top  of  the  pyramid  a  tiny  ball  of 
peacock  blue,  hanging,  balancing,  daintily,  supremely  right 
in  pose  and  gesture. 

It  had  gesture.  It  caught  Peter's  eye — Peter  stood 
with  his  nose  against  the  pane,  his  heart  hammering — "  Oh ! 
she  is  sufTering — My  God,  how  she  is  suffering!" — and 
there  the  little  blue  ball  caught  him,  held  him,  encouraged 
him. 

**  I  will  belong  to  your  boy  one  day  "  it  seemed  to  say. 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  839 

"  It  shall  be  the  first  thing  I  will  buy  for  him — "  thought 
Peter. 

He  turned  now  amongst  the  light  and  crowds  of  Picca- 
dilly. He  walked  on  without  seeing  and  hearing — always 
with  that  thought  in  his  heart — "  She  is  in  terrible  pain. 
How  can  God  be  so  cruel?  And  she  was  so  happy — before 
I  came  she  was  so  happy — now — what  have  I  done  to  her  ?  " 

Never,  before  to-night,  had  he  felt  so  sharply,  so  irre- 
trievably his  sense  of  responsibility.  Here  now,  before 
him,  at  this  birth  of  his  child,  everything  that  he  had  done, 
thought,  said — everything  that  he  had  been — confronted 
him.  He  was  only  twenty-seven  but  his  shoulders  were 
heavy  with  the  confusion  of  his  past.  Looking  back  upon 
it,  he  saw  a  helpless  medley  of  indecisions,  of  sudden  im- 
pulses, sudden  refusals;  into  the  skeins  of  it,  too,  there 
seemed  to  be  dragged  the  people  that  had  made  up  his  life 
— they  faced  him,  surrounded  him,  bewildered  him ! 

What  right  had  he,  thus  encompassed,  to  hand  these 
things  on  to  another?  His  father,  his  grandfather  .  .  . 
he  saw  always  that  dark  strain  of  hatred,  of  madness,  of 
evil  working  in  their  blood.  Suppose  that  as  his  boy  grew 
he  should  see  this  in  the  young  eyes?  Suppose,  most  hor- 
rible of  all,  that  he  should  feel  this  hatred  for  his  son  that 
his  grandfather  had  felt  for  his  father,  that  his  father  had 
felt  for  him. 

What  had  he  done?  .  .  .  He  stopped,  staring  confusedly 
about  him.  The  people  jostled  him  on  every  side.  The 
old  devils  were  at  him — "  Eat  and  drink  for  to-morrow  we 
die.  .  .  .  Give  it  up  .  .  .  We're  too  strong  for  you  and 
we'll  be  too  strong  for  your  son.  Who  are  you  to  defy  us? 
Come  down — give  it  up — " 

His  white  face  caught  attention.  "  Move  along,  guv'- 
nor,"  some  one  shouted.  A  man  took  him  by  the  arm  and 
led  up  a  dark  side  street.  He  turned  his  eyes  and  saw 
that  the  man  was  Maradick. 

II 

The  elder  man  felt  that  the  boy  was  trembling  from 
head  to   foot. 

"What's  the  matter,  Westcott?  Anything  I  can  do  for 
you?" 


S40  FORTITUDE 

Peter  seemed  to  take  him  in  slowly,  and  then,  with  a 
great  effort,  to  pull  himself  together. 

"  WTiat,  you — Maradick?  Where  was  I?  I'm  afraid 
I've  been  making  a  fool  of  myself.  ..."  A  church  clock 
struck  somewhere  in  the  distance.  "  Hullo,  I  say,  what's 
that.^  That's  eleven.  I  must  get  back,  I  ought  to  be  at 
home—" 

"  I'll  come  with  you — " 

Maradick   hailed   a   hansom   and   helped   Peter  into  it. 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence — then  Maradick 
said — 

"I  hope  everything's  all  right,  Westcott.^     Your  wife?" 

Peter  spoke  as  though  he  were  in  a  dream.  "  I've  been 
waiting  there  all  the  afternoon — she's  been  suffering — My 
God!  ...  It  got  on  my  nerves.  .  .  .  She's  so  young — 
they  oughtn't  to  hurt  her  like  that."  He  covered  his  face 
with  his  hands. 

"  I  know.  I  felt  like  that  when  my  first  child  came. 
It's  terrible,  awful.  And  then  it's  over — all  the  pain — and 
it's  magnificent,  glorious — and  then — later — it's  so  common- 
place that  you  cannot  believe  that  it  w^as  ever  either  awful 
or  magnificent.  Fix  your  mind  on  the  glorious  part  of  it, 
Westcott.  Think  of  this  time  to-morrow  when  your  wife 
will  be  so  proud,  so  happy — you'll  both  be  so  proud,  so 
happy,  that  you'll  never  know  anything  in  life  like  it." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know — of  course  it's  sure  to  be  all  right — 
but  I  suppose  this  waiting's  got  on  my  nerves.  There  was 
a  fellow  in  the  Park  just  broken  his  wife's  head  in — and 
then  everything  was  so  quiet.  I  could  almost  hear  her  cry- 
ing, right  away  in  her  room." 

He  stopped  a  moment  and  then  went  on.  "  It's  what 
I've  always  wanted — always  to  have  a  boy.  And,  by  Jove, 
he'll  be  wonderful !  I  tell  you  he  shall  be — We'll  be  such 
pals!"     He   broke   off   suddenly — "You    haven't  a   boy?" 

"  No,  mine  are  both  girls.  Getting  on  now — they'll 
soon  be  coming  out.  I  should  like  to  have  had  a  boy — " 
Maradick   sighed. 

"Are  they  nn  awful  lot  to  you?" 

"  No — I  don't  suppose  they  are.  I  should  have  under- 
stood a  boy  better, — but  they're  good  girls.  I'm  proud  of 
them  in  a  way — but  I'm  out  so  much,  you  see." 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  341 

Peter  faced  the  contrast.  Here  this  middle-aged  man, 
with  his  two  girls — and  here  too  he,  Peter,  with  his  agonis- 
ing, flaming  trial — to  slip,  so  soon,  into  dull  commonplace? 

"  But  didn't  you — if  you  can  look  so  far — didn't  you, 
when  the  first  child  came,  funk  it?  Your  responsibility 
I  mean.  All  the  things  one's — one's  ancestors — it's  fright- 
ening enough  for  oneself  but  to  hand  it  on — " 

"  It's  nothing  to  do  with  oneself — one's  used,  that's  all. 
The  child  will  be  on  its  own  legs,  thrusting  you  away  be- 
fore you  know  where  you  are.  It  will  want  to  claim  its 
responsibilities — ancestors  and  all — " 

Peter  said  nothing — Maradick  went  on: 

"  You  know  we  were  talking  one  night  and  were  inter- 
rupted— you're  in  danger  of  letting  the  things  you  imagine 
beat  the  things  you  know.  Stick  to  the  thing  you  can 
grasp,  touch — I  know  the  darigefs^of"  the  others — I  told^- 
-  yon  that  once  in  Cornwall,  I — the  most  unlikely  person  in 
the  world — was   caught  up  by  it.     I've  never   laughed  at 

(jnorbidity,    or   nerves,    or   insanity    since.     There's    such   a"\ 
jolly  thin  wall  between  the  sanest,  most  level-headed  heet- y 
eating  Squire  in  the  country  and  the  maddest  poet  in  Bed-# 
lam.     I  know — I've  been  both  in  the  same  day.     It's  bet- 
.   ter  to  be  both,  I  believe,  if  you  can  keep  one  under  the  other,  I 
I   but  you  must  keep  it  under — "  / 

^  Maradick  talked  on.  He  saw  that  the  boy's  nerves  were 
jumping,  that  he  was  holding  himself  in  with  the  greatest 
difficulty. 

Peter  said :  "  You  don't  know,  Maradick.  I've  had  to 
fight  all  my  life — my  father,  grandfather,  all  of  them  have  \ 
given  in  at  last — and  now  this  child  .  .  .  perhaps  I  shall 
see  it  growing,  see  him  gradually  learning  to  hate  me,  see 
myself  hating  him  ...  at  last,  my  God,  see  him  go  under 
— drink,  deviltry — I've  fought  it — I'm  always  fighting  it — 
but  to-night — " 

"  Good  heavens,  man — you're  not  going  to  tell  me  that 
your    father,    your    grandfather — the    rest    of    them — are 
styonger  than  you.     What  about  your  soul,  your  own  blessed"^ 
Soul  that  can't  be  touched  by  any  living  thing  or  dead  thing  / 
either    if   you   stick   to   it?     Why,   every   man's   got   power/ 
enough  in  himself  to  ride  heaven  and  earth  and  all  eternity 
if  he  only  believed  he'd  got  it!     Ride  your  scruples,  man 


\ 


V 


842  FORTITUDE 

— ride  'em,  drive  *em — send  'em  scuttling.     Believe  in  your-  j 
self  and  stick  to  it — Courage!  .  .  ." 

Maradick  pulled  himself  in.  They  were  driving  now, 
down  the  King's  Road.  The  people  were  pouring  in  a 
thick,  buzzing  crowd,  out  of  the  Chelsea  Palace.  Middle- 
aged  stockbrokers  in  hansom  cabs — talking  like  the  third 
act  of  a  problem  play! — but  Maradick  had  done  his  work. 
As  they  drove  round  the  corner,  past  the  mad  lady's  painted 
house,  he  saw  that  Peter  was  calmer.  He  had  regained 
his  self-control.  The  little  house  where  Peter  lived  was 
very  still — the  trees  in  the  orchard  were  stiff  and  dark 
beneath  the  stars. 

Peter  spoke  in  a  whisper — "  Good-night,  Maradick, 
you've  done  me  a  lot  of  good — I  shan't  forget  it." 

"  Good  luck  to  you,"  Maradick  whispered  back.  Peter 
stole  into  the  house. 

The  little  drawing-room  looked  very  cosy;  the  fire  was 
burning,  the  lamp  lighted,  the  thick  curtains  drawn. 
Maria  Theresa  smiled,  with  all  her  finery,  from  the  wall. 

Peter  sat  down  in  front  of  the  fire.  Maradick  was  right. 
One  must  have  one's  hand  on  the  bridle — the  Rider  on  the 
Lion  again  I tj^  better  that  tlie  beast  under  you  should  be 
a  Lion  rather  tHin  a  Donkey,  but  let  It  once  fling  you  off 
its  bacfe  an&  you're  J6fte'  fSfl  And  Maradick  naa  ^aid 
these  fflings!  MaraHick  WR^m  once  Peter  had  considered 
the  dullest  of  his  acquaintances.  Well,  one  never  knew 
about  people — most  of  the  Stay-at-homes  were  Explorers 
and  vice  versa,  if  one  only  understood  them. 

How  still  the  house  was!  What  was  happening  upstairs? 
He  could  not  go  and  see — he  could  not  move.  He  was  held 
by  the  stillness.     The  doctor  would  come  and  tell  him.  .  .  . 

He  thought  of  the  toyshop — that  blue  ball — it  would  be 
the  first  thing  that  he  would  buy  for  the  boy — and  then 
soldiers — soldiers  that  wouldn't  hurt  him,  that  he  couldn't 
lick  the  paint  from — 

Now  the  little  silver  clock  ticked!  He  was  so  terribly 
tired — he  had  never  been  tired   like  this  before.  .  .  . 

The  stillness  pressed  upon  the  house.  Every  sound — the 
distant  rattling  of  some  cab,  the  faint  murmur  of  trams — 
was  stifled,  extinguished.  The  orchard  seemed  to  press  in 
upon  the  house,  darker  and  darker  grew  the  forest  about  it 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  843 

— The  stars  were  shut  out,  the  moon  .  .  .  the  world  was 
dead. 

Then  into  this  sealed  and  hidden  silence,  a  voice  crying 
from  an  upper  room,  suddenly  fell — a  woman  in  the  aban- 
donment of  utter  pain,  pain  beyond  all  control,  was  scream- 
ing. Somewhere,  above  that  dark  forest  that  pressed  in 
upon  the  house,  a  bird  of  prey  hovered.  It  hung  for  a 
moment;  it  descended — its  talons  were  fixed  upon  her  flesh 
.  .  .  then  again  it  ascended.  Shriek  after  shriek,  burst- 
ing the  silence,  chasing  the  shadows,  flooding  the  secrecy 
with  horrible  light,  beat  like  blows  upon  the  walls  of  the 
house — rose,  fell,  rose  again.  Peter  was  standing,  his  back 
against  the  wall,  his  hands  spread  out,  his  face  grey. 

"My  God,  my  God  ...  Oh!  my  God!" 

The  sweat  poured  from  his  forehead.  Once  more  there 
was  silence  but  now  it  was  ominous,  awful.  .  .  . 

The  little  silver  clock  ticked — Peter's  body  stood 
stretched  against  the  wall — he  faced  the  door. 

Hours,  hours  passed.  He  did  not  move.  The  scream- 
ing had,  many  years  ago,  ceased.  The  doctor — a  cheerful 
man  with  blue  eyes  and  a  little  bristling  moustache — 
came  in. 

"  A  fine  boy,  Mr.  Westcott — I  congratulate  you.  You 
might  see  your  wife  for  a  moment  if  you  cared — stood  it 
remarkably  well — " 

Slowly  the  forest,  dark  and  terrible,  moved  away  from 
the  house.  Very  faintly  again  could  be  heard  the  distant 
rattling  of  some  cab,  the  murmur  of  trams. 


E 


CHAPTER  VII 
DECLARATION  OF  HAPPINESS 


XTRACTS  from  letters  that  Bobby  Galleon  wrote  to 
Alice  Galleon  about  this  time: 


".  .  .  But,  of  course,  I  am  sorrier  than  I  can  say  that 
it's  so  dull.  That's  due  to  charity,  my  dear,  and  if  you 
will  go  and  fling  yourself  into  the  depths  of  Yorkshire  be- 
cause a  girl  like  Ola  Hunting  chooses  to  think  she's 
unhappy  and  lonely  you've  only  yourself  to  thank.  More- 
over there's  your  husband  to  be  considered.  I  don't  sup- 
pose, for  a  single  instant,  that  he  really  prefers  to  be  left 
alone,  with  his  infant  son,  mind  you,  howling  at  the  present 
moment  because  his  nurse  won't  let  him  swallow  the  glass 
marbles,  and  you  can  picture  to  yourself — if  you  want  to 
make  yourself  thoroughly  unhappy — your  Robert  sitting, 
melancholy  throughout  the  long  evening,  alone,  desolate, 
creeping  to  bed  somewhere  about  ten  o'clock. 

"  So  there  we  are — you're  bored  to  death  and  I've  no 
one  to  growl  at  when  I  come  back  from  the  City — all  Ola 
Hunting's  fault — wring  the  girl's  neck.  Meanwhile  here 
I  sit  and  every  evening  I'll  write  whatever  comes  into  my 
head  and  never  look  back  on  it  again  but  stick  it  into  an 
envelope  and  send  it  to  you.  You  know  me  too  well  by 
now  to  be  disappointed   at  anything. 

"  I'm  quite  sure  that,  if  you  were  here  with  me  now, 
sitting  in  that  chair  opposite  me  and  sewing  for  all  you 
were  worth,  that  the  thing  that  we'd  be  talking  about  would 
be  Peter.  If,  therefore,  these  scrawls  are  full  of  Peter 
you  won't  mind,  I  know.  He's  immensely  occupying  my 
attention  just  now  and  you  love  him  as  truly  and  deeply  as 
I  do,  so  that  if  I  go  on  at  length  about  him  you'll  excuse  it 
on  that  score.  You  who  know  me  better  than  any  one  else 
in  the  world  know  that,  in  my  most  secret  heart,  I  flatter 
myself  on  my  ability  as  a  psychologist.     I  remember  when 

844 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  345 

I  told  you  first  how  you  laughed  but  I  think  since  then 
you've  come  round  not  a  little^  and  although  we  both  keep 
it  to  ourselves,  it's  a  little  secret  that  you're  a  tiny  bit  proud 
of.  I  can  see  how  brother  Percival,  or  young  Tony  Gale, 
or  even  dear  Peter  himself  would  mock,  if  I  told  them  of 
this  ambition  of  mine.  '  Good,  dear,  stupid,  old  Bobby ' 
is  the  way  they  think  of  me,  and  I  know  it's  mother's  per- 
petual wonder  (and  also,  I  think,  a  little  her  comfort)  that 
I  should  be  so  lacking  in  brilliance  when  Percival  and 
Millie  are  so  full  of  it. 

"  You  know  Peter's  attitude  to  me  in  these  things — you've 
seen  it  often  enough.  He's  patronising — he  can't  help  it. 
That  isn't,  he  considers,  my  line  in  the  least,  and,  let  me 
once  begin  to  talk  to  him  of  stocks  and  shares  and  he'll 
open  all  his  ears.  Well,  I  can't  blame  him — but  I  do  think 
these  writers  and  people  are  inclined  to  draw  their  line  a 
little  too  sharply  with  their  Philistines — great  big  gulf, 
please — and  Artists.  At  any  rate,  here  goes  for  my  psy- 
chology and  good  luck  to  it.  Peter,  in  fact,  is  so  interest- 
ing a  subject  if  one  sees  anything  of  him  at  all  that  I  be- 
lieve he'd  draw  speculation  out  of  any  one.  There  was  old 
Maradick  talking  about  him  the  other  night — fascinated  by 
him  and  understanding  him  most  amazingly  well — another 
instance  of  your  Philistine  and  Artist  mixed. 

"  But  I  knew  him — and  knew  him  jolly  well  too — when  he 
was  about  twelve,  so  that  I  really  get  a  pull  over  the  rest 
of  you  there,  for  it  adds  of  course  immensely  to  the  interest 
and  if  ever  child  was  Father  of  the  Man,  Peter  was.  You 
know  how  we  both  funked  that  marriage  of  his  for  him — • 
you  because  you  knew  Clare  so  well,  I  because  I  knew 
Peter.  And  then  for  a  time  it  really  seemed  that  we  were 
both  entirely  wrong.  Clare's  is  a  far  simpler  personality 
than  Peter's,  and  if  you  work  along  one  or  two  recognised 
lines — let  her  have  her  way,  don't  frighten  her,  above  all 
keep  her  conventional — it's  all  right.  Clare  was,  and  is, 
awfully  in  love  with  him,  and  he  madly  with  her  of  course 
— and  that  helped  everything  along.  You  know  how  re- 
lieved we  both  were  and  indeed  it  seemed,  for  a  time,  that 
it  was  going  to  be  the  making  of  both  of  them — going  to 
make  Clare  braver  and  Peter  less  morbid. 

"  Well,   it's    since   you've   been   away   that   everything's 


846  FORTITUDE 

happened.  Although  the  baby  was  born  some  weeks  be- 
fore you  went,  it's  only  lately  that  Clare  has  been  up  and 
about.  She's  perfectly  well  and  the  baby's  splendid — 
promises  to  be  a  tremendous  fellow  and  as  healthy  as  pos- 
sible. You  can  imagine,  a  little,  the  effect  of  it  all  on 
Clare.  I  don't  suppose  there's  any  girl  in  London  been  so 
wrapped  in  cotton  wool  all  her  hfe,  and  that  old  ass  of  a 
father  and  still  more  irritating  ass  of  a  mother  would  go  on 
wrapping  her  still  if  they  had  their  way.  The  fuss  they've 
both  made  about  this  whole  business  is  simply  incredible — 
especially  when  the  man's  a  doctor  and  brings  Lord  knows 
how  many  children  into  the  world  every  week  of  his  life. 
But  it's  all  been  awfully  bad   for  Clare.     Of  course,  she 

Cwas  frightened — frightened  out  of  her  wits.  It's  the  very^ 
first  time  life  ever  had  its  wrappings  off  for  her,  and  that  ' 
in  itself  of  course  is  a  tremendously  good  thing.  But  you 
(can't,  unfortunately,  wrap  any  one  up  for  all  those  ycars\ 
and  then  take  the  wrappings  off  and  not  deliver  a  shock  to/ 
the  system.  Of  course  there's  a  shock,  and  it's  just  this 
shock  that  I'm  so  afraid  of.  I'm  afraid  of  it  for  one  thing 
because  Peter's  so  entirely  oblivious  of  it.  He  was  in  an 
agony  of  terror  on  the  day  that  the  baby  was  born,  but 
once  it  was  there — well  and  healthy  and  promising — fear 
vanished.  He  could  only  see  room  for  glory — and  glory 
he  does.  I  cannot  tell  you  what  that  boy  is  like  about  the 
baby;  at  present  he  thinks,  day  and  night,  of  nothing  else. 
It  is  the  most  terrific  thing  to  watch  his  feeling  about  it — ■ 
and  meanwhile  he  takes  it  for  granted  that  Clare  feels  the 
same.  .  .  .  Well,  she  doesn't.  I  have  been  in  a  good  deal 
during  these  last  few  days  and  she's  stranger  than  words 
can  say — doesn't  see  the  child  if  she  can  help  it — loves  it, 
worships  it,  when  it  is  there,  and — is  terrified  of  it.  I 
saw  a  look  in  her  eyes  when  she  was  nursing  it  yesterday 
that  was  sheer  undiluted  terror.  She's  been  frightened  out 
of  her  life,  and  if  I  know  her  the  least  little  bit  she's  abso- 
lutely made  up  her  mind  never  to  be  frightened  like  that 
again.  She  is  going  to  hurl  herself  into  a  perfect  whirl- 
pool of  excitement  and  entertainment  and  drag  Peter  with 
her  if  she  can.  Meanwhile,  behind  that  hard  little  head  of 
hers,  she's  making  plans  just  as  fast  as  she  can  make  them. 
I  believe  she  looks  on  life  now  as  though  it  had  broken  the 


( 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  34T 


compact  that  she  made  with  it — a  compact  that  things 
should  always  be  easy,  comfortable,  above  all,  never  threat- 
ening. The  present  must  be  calm  but  the  Future's  abso- 
lutely got  to  be — and  I  believe,  although  she  loves  him  de- 
votedly in  the  depths  of  her  strange  little  soul,  that  she 
half  blames  Peter  for  all  of  this  disturbance,  and  that 
there  are  a  great  many  things  about  him — his  earlier  life, 
his  earlier  friends,  even  his  work — that  she  would  strip 
from  him  if  she  could. 

"  Well,  enough  for  the  present.  I  don't  know  what  non- 
sense there  isn't  here.  Into  the  envelope  it  all  goes.  I've 
been  talking  to  you  for  an  hour  and  a  half  and  that's 
something.  .  .  ." 

n 

'*.  .  .  I've  just  come  in  from  dinner  with  Peter  and 
Clare  and  feel  inclined  to  talk  to  you  for  hours  ahead. 
However,  that  I  can't  do,  so  I  shall  write  to  you  instead 
and  you're  to  regard  it  all  as  a  continuation  of  the  things 
that  I  said  in  last  night's  letter.  I  am  as  interested  as 
ever  and  indeed,  after  this  evening's  dinner  more  interested. 
The  odd  thing  about  it  all  is  that  Peter  is  so  completely 
oblivious  to  any  change  that  may  be  going  on  in  Clare. 
His  whole  mind  is  centred  now  on  the  baby,  he  cannot  have 
enough  of  it  and  it  was  he,  and  not  Clare,  who  took  me  up 
after   dinner  to  see  it  sleeping. 

"  You  remember  that  they  had  some  kind  of  a  dispute 
about  the  name  of  the  boy  at  the  time  of  the  christening. 
Peter  insisted  that  it  should  be  Stephen,  after,  I  suppose, 
that  odd  Cornish  friend  of  his,  and  Clare,  weak  and  ill 
though  she  was,  objected  with  all  her  might.  I  don't 
know  why  she  took  this  so  much  to  heart  but  it  was  all,  I 
suppose,  part  of  that  odd  hatred  that  she  has  of  Peter's 
earlier  life  and  earlier  friends.  She  has  never  met  the 
man  Brant,  but  I  think  that  she  fancies  that  he  is  going  to 
swoop  down  one  of  these  days  and  carry  Peter  off  on  a 
broomstick  or  something.  She  gave  in  about  the  name — 
indeed  I  have  never  seen  Peter  more  determined — but  I 
think,  nevertheless,  that  she  broods  over  it  and  remembers 
it.     My  dear,  I  am  as  sorry  for  her  as  I  can  be.     There 


■■> 


»48  FORTITUDE 

she  stands,  loving  Peter  with  all  her  heart  and  soul,  terrified 
out  of  her  wits  at  the  possibilities  that  life  is  presenting  to 
her,  hating  Peter's  friends  at  one  moment,  his  work  the 
next,  the  baby  the  next — exactly  like  some  one,  walking  on 
a  window-ledge  in  his  sleep  and  suddenly  waking  and  dis- 
covering— 

"  Peter's  a  more  difficult  question.  He's  too  riotously 
happy  just  at  the  moment  to  listen  to  a  word  from  any  one. 
His  relation  to  the  child  is  really  the  most  touching  thing 
you  ever  saw,  and  really  the  child,  considering  that  it  has 
scarcely  begun  to  exist,  has  a  feeling  for  him  in  the  most 
wonderful  way.  It  is  as  good  as  gold  when  he  is  there 
and  follows  him  with  its  eyes — it  doesn't  pay  much  atten- 
tion to  Clare.  I  think  it  knows  that  she's  frightened  of  it. 
Yes,  Peter  is  quite  riotously  happy.  You  know  that  *  The 
Stone  House ',  is  coming  out  next  week.  There  is  to  be  a 
8upp>er  party  at  the  Galleons' — myself,  Mrs.  Launce,  Mara- 
dick,  the  Gales,  some  woman  he  knew  at  that  boarding- 
house,  Cardillac  and  Dr.  and  Mrs.   Rossiter. 

"  By  the  way,  Cardillac  is  there  a  great  deal  and  I  am 
both  glad  and  sorry.  He  is  very  good  for  Clare  and  not  at 
all  good  for  Peter.  He  seems  to  understand  Clare  in  the 
most  wonderful  way — far  better  than  Peter  does.  He 
brings  her  out,  helps  her  to  be  broader  and  really  I  think 
explains  Peter  to  her  and  helps  things  along.  His  in- 
fluence on  Peter  is  all  the  other  way.  Peter,  of  course, 
worships  him,  just  as  he  used  to  do  in  the  old  days  at 
school,  and  Cards  always  liked  being  worshipped.  He  has 
an  elegance,  a  savoir-faire  that  dear,  square-shouldered 
rough-and-tumble  Peter  finds  entrancing,  but,  of  course, 
Peter's  worth  the  dozen  of  him  any  day  of  the  week.  He 
drags  out  all  Peter's  worst  side.  I  wonder  whether  you'll  ' 
understand  what  I  mean  when  I  say  that  Peter  isn't  meant 
to  be  happy — at  any  rate  not  yet.  He's  got  something  too 
big,  too  tremendous  in  him  to  be  carved  easily  into  any  one 
of  our  humdrum,  conventional  shapes.  He  takes  things 
so  hard  that  he  isn't  intended  to  take  more  than  one  thing  ' 
at  a  time,  and  here  he  is  with  Clare  and  Cards  both,  as  it 
seems  to  me,  in  a  conspiracy  to  pull  him  into  a  thousand 
little  bits  and  to  fling  each  little  bit  to  a  diflferent  tea- 
party. 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  849 

"  He  ought  to  be  getting  at  his  work  and  he  isn't  getting 
at  it  at  all.  '  The  Stone  House  '  is  coming  out  next  week 
and  it  may  be  all  right,  but  I  don't  mind  betting  that  the 
next  one  suffers.  If  he  weren't  in  a  kind  of  dream  he'd 
see  it  all  himself,  and  indeed  I  think  that  he'll  wake  one 
day  soon  and  see  that  a  thousand  ridiculous  things  are  get- 
ting in  between  him  and  his  proper  life. 

"  He  was  leading  his  proper  life  in  those  days  at  Daw- 
son's when  they  were  beating  him  at  home  and  hating  him 
at  school,  and  it  was  that  old  bookshop  and  the  queer  people 
he  met  in  it  that  produced  '  Reuben  Hallard.' 

"  He's  so  amazingly  young  in  the  ways  of  the  world,  so 
eager  to  make  friends  with  everybody,  so  delighted  with  an 
entirely   superficial   butterfly   like    Cards,   so   devotedly   at- 
tached to  his  wife,  that  I   must  confess   that  the  outlook  | 
seems  to  me  bad.     There's  going  to  be  a  tremendous  tug-  I 
of -war  in  a  minute  and  it's  not  going  to  be  easy  for  the/ 
boy — ^nor,  indeed  for  Clare. 

"  I  hope  that  you  don't  feel  so  far  removed  from  this  in 
your  Yorkshire  desert  that  it  has  no  interest  for  you,  but 
I  know  how  devoted  you  are  to  Peter  and  one  doesn't  want 
to  see  the  boy  turned  into  the  society  novelist  creature — 
the  kind  of  creature,  God  forgive  me,  that  brother  Percival 
is  certain  to  become.  You'll  probably  say  when  you  read 
this  that  I  am  trying  to  drag  out  all  the  morbid  side  of 
Peter  and  make  him  the  melancholy,  introspective  creature 
that  he  used  to  be,  in  fits  and  starts,  when  you  first  knew 


S? 


him  somewhere,  and  I  believe  that  if  he's  allowed  to  follow, 
,   devoutly  and  with  pain  and  anguish,  maybe,  his  Art,  he'll 
/   be  a  great  creature — a  great  man  and  a  great  writer.     But 
1    he's  in  the  making — too  eager  to  please,  too  eager  to  care 
for   every   one,   too   desperately  down  if   he   thinks   things 
are   going  badly  with  him.     I   notice  that  he  hasn't  been 
to  see  my  father  lately — I  think  too  that  all  this  reviewing 
is  bad  for  him — other  people's  novels  pouring  upon  him  in 
an   avalanche  must  take   something  from  the   freshness  of 
his  own. 

"  Anyhow  I,  Robert  Galleon,  your  clever  and  penetrating 


350  FORTITUDE 

husband,  scent  much  danger  and  trouble  ahead.  Clare,  sim- 
ply out  of  love  for  him  and  anxiety  for  herself,  will  I 
know,  do  all  she  can  to  drag  him  from  the  thing  that  he 
should  follow — and  Cards  will  help  her — out  of  sheer  mis- 
chief, I   verily  believe. 

"  On  their  own  heads  be  it.     As  to  the  carpets  you  asked 
me  to  go  and  look  at  .  .  ." 


Ill 

".  .  .  And  now  for  the  supper  party.  Although  there's 
a  whole  day  beliind  me  I'm  still  quivering  under  the 
excitement  of  it.  As  I  tell  you  about  it  it  will  in  all  prob- 
ability, declare  itself  as  a  perfectly  ordinary  affair,  and, 
indeed,  I  think  that  you  should  have  been  there  yourself 
to  have  realised  the  emotion  of  it.  But  I'll  try  and  give 
it  you  word  for  word.  I  was  kept  in  tlie  city  and  arrived 
late  and  they  were  all  there.  Mrs.  Launce,  twinkling  all 
over  with  kindness,  Maradick  in  his  best  Stock  Exchange 
manner,  the  Gales  (Janet  Gale  perfectly  lovely),  the  old 
Rossiters,  Cards,  shining  with  a  mixture  of  enterprise  and 
knowledge  of  the  world  and  last  of  all  a  very  pale,  rather 
nervous,  untidy  Irish  woman,  a  Miss  Monogue.  Clare  was  so 
radiantly  happy  that  I  knew  that  she  wasn't  happy  at  all, 
had  obviously  taken  a  great  deal  of  trouble  about  her  hair  and 
had  it  all  piled  up  on  the  top  of  her  head  and  looked  won- 
derful. I  can't  describe  these  things,  but  you  know  that 
when  she's  bent  on  giving  an  impression  she  seems  to  stand 
on  her  toes  all  the  time — well,  she  was  standing  on  every 
kind  of  toe,  moral,  physical,  emotional  last  night.  Finally 
there  was  Peter,  looking  as  though  his  evening  dress  had 
been  made  for  something  quite  different  from  social  din- 
ner parties.  It  fitted  all  right,  but  it  was  too  comfortable 
to  be  smart — he  looked,  beside  Cards,  like  a  good  service- 
able cob  up  against  the  smartest  of  hunters.  Peter's 
rough,  bullet  head,  the  way  that  he  stands  with  his  legs 
wide  apart  and  his  thick  body  holding  itself  deliberately 
still  with  an  effort  as  though  he  were  on  board  ship — 
and  then  that  smile  that  won  all  our  hearts  ages  ago  right 
out  of  the  centre  of  his  brown  eyes  first  and  then  curving 
his  mouih,  at  last  seizing  all  his  body — but  always,  in  spite 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  351 

of  it,  a  little  appealing,  a  little  sad  somewhere — can't  you 
see  him?  And  Cards,  slim,  straight,  dark,  beautifully 
clothed,  beautifully  witty  and  I  am  convinced,  beautifully 
insincere.  Can't  you  see  Cards  say  '  good  evening '  to 
me  with  that  same  charm,  that  same  ease,  that  same  con- 
tempt that  he  had  when  we  were  at  school  together? 
Bobby  Galleon — an  honest  good  fellow — but  dull — mon 
Dieu — dull  (he  rather  likes  French  phrases) — can't  you 
hear  him  saying  it?  Well  from  the  very  first,  there  was 
something  in  the  air.  We  were  all  excited,  even  old  Mrs. 
Rossiter  and  the  pale  Irish  creature  whom  I  remembered 
afterwards  I  had  met  that  day  when  I  went  to  that  board- 
ing-house after  Peter.  Clare  was  quite  extraordinary — I 
have  never  seen  her  anything  like  it — she  talked  the  whole 
time,  laughed,  almost  shouted.  The  only  person  she  treated 
stiffly  was  Cards — I  don't  think  she  likes  him. 

"  He  was  at  his  most  brilliant — really  wonderful — and  I 
liked  him  better  than  I've  ever  liked  him  before.  He 
seemed  to  have  a  genuine  pleasure  in  Peter's  happiness,  and 
I  believe  he's  as  fond  of  the  boy  as  he's  able  to  be  of  any 
one.  A  copy  of  '  The  Stone  House  '  was  given  to  each  of  us 
(I  haven't  had  time  to  look  at  mine  yet),  and  I  suppose 
the  combination  of  the  baby  and  the  book  moved  us  all. 
Besides,  Clare  and  Peter  both  looked  so  absurdly  young. 
Such  children  to  have  had  so  many  adventures  already. 
You  can  imagine  how  riotous  we  got  when  I  tell  you  that 
dessert  found  Mrs.  Rossiter  with  a  paper  cap  on  her  head 
and  Janet  Gale  was  singing  some  Cornish  song  or  other 
to  the  delight  of  the  company.  Miss  Monogue  and  I  were 
the  quietest.  I  should  think  that  she's  one  of  the  best,  and 
I  saw  her  look  at  Peter  once  or  twice  in  a  way  that  showed 
how  strongly  she  felt  about  him. 

"  Well,  old  girl,  I'm  bothered  if  I  can  explain  the  kind 
of  anxiety  that  came  over  me  after  a  time.  You'll  think 
me  a  regular  professional  croaker  but  really  I  suppose,  at 
bottom,  it  was  some  sort  of  feeling  that  the  whole  thing, 
this  shouting  and  cheering  and  thumping  the  table — was 
premature.  And  then  I  suppose  it  was  partly  my  knowl- 
edge of  Peter.  It  wasn't  like  him  to  behave  in  this  sort 
of  way.  He  wasn't  himself — excited,  agitated  by  some- 
thing altogether  foreign  to  him.     I  could  have  thought  that 


352  FORTITUDE 

he  was  drunk,  if  I  hadn't  known  that  he  hadn't  touched 
any  liquor  whatever.  But  a  man  of  Peter's  temperament 
pays  for  this  sort  of  thing — it  isn't  the  sort  of  way  he's 
meant  to  take  Ufe. 

"  Whatever  the  reason  may  have  been  I  know  that  I  felt 
suddenly  outside  the  whole  business  and  most  awfully  de- 
pressed. I  think  Miss  Monogue  felt  exactly  the  same. 
By  the  time  the  wine  was  on  the  table  all  I  wanted  was  to 
get  right  away.  It  was  almost  as  though  I  had  been  look- 
ing on  at  something  that  I  was  ashamed  to  see.  There 
was  a  kind  of  deliberate  determination  about  their  happi- 
ness and  Clare's  little  body  with  her  hair  on  the  verge,  as 
it  seemed,  of  a  positive  downfall,  had  something  quite  piti- 
ful in  its  deliberate  rejoicing;  such  a  child,  my  dear — I 
never  realised  how  young  imtil  last  night.  Such  a  child 
and  needing  some  one  so  much  older  and  wiser  than  Peter 
to  manage  it  all. 

"  Well,  there  I  was  hating  it  when  the  final  moment  came. 
Cards  got  up  and  in  one  of  the  wittiest  little  speeches  you 
ever  heard  in  your  life,  proposed  Peter's  health,  alluded  to 
*  Reuben  Hallard,'  then  Clare,  then  the  Son  and  Heir,  a 
kind  of  back  fling  at  old  Dawson's,  and  then  last  of  all,  an 
apostrophe  to  '  The  Stone  House  '  all  glory  and  honour,  &c. : 
— well,  it  was  most  neatly  done  and  we  all  sat  back,  si- 
lent, for  Peter's  reply. 

"  The  dear  boy  stood  there,  all  flushed  and  excited,  with 
his  hair  pushed  back  off  his  forehead  and  began  the  most 
extraordinary  speech  I've  ever  heard.  I  can't  possibly  give 
you  the  effect  of  it  at  secondhand,  in  the  mere  repetition 
of  it  there  was  little  more  than  that  he  was  wildly,  madly 
happy,  that  there  was  no  one  in  the  world  as  happy  as  he, 
that  now  at  last  the  gods  had  given  him  all  that  he  had 
ever  wanted,  let  them  now  do  their  worst — and  so  crying, 
flung  his  glass  over  his  shoulder,  and  smashed  it  on  to  the 
wall   behind   him. 

"  I  cannot  possibly  tell  you  how  sinister,  how  ominous 
the  whole  thing  suddenly  was.  It  swooped  down  ujKjn  all 
of  us  like  a  black  cloud.  Credit  me,  if  you  will,  with  a 
highly-strung  bundle  of  nerves  (not  so  solid  matter-of-fact 
as  I  seem,  you  know  well  enough)  but  it  seemed  to  me,  at 
that  moment  that  Peter  was  defying,  consciously,  with  hii 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  853 

heart  in  his  mouth,  a  world  of  devils  and  that  he  was  cog- 
nisant of  all  of  them.  The  thing  was  conscious — that  was 
the  awful  thing  about  it.  I  could  swear  that  he  was  seeing 
far  beyond  all  of  us,  that  he  was  hurling  his  happiness  at 
something  that  he  had  there  before  him  as  clearly  as  I  have 
you  before  me  now.  It  was  defiance  and  I  believe  the  min- 
ute after  uttering  it  he  would  have  liked  to  have  rushed  up- 
stairs to  see  that  his  baby  was  safe.  .  .  . 

"  Be  that  as  it  may,  we  all  felt  it — every  one  of  us.  The 
party  was  clouded.  Cards  and  Clare  did  their  best  to 
brighten  things  up  again,  and  Peter  and  Tony  and  Janet 
Gale  played  silly  games  and  made  a  great  deal  of  noise- 
but   the  spirit   was   gone. 

"  I  left  very  early.  Miss  Monogue  came  away  at  the 
same  time.  She  spoke  to  me  before  she  said  good-night: 
*  I  know  that  you  are  an  old  friend  of  Peter's.  I  am  so 
fond  of  him — we  all  are  at  Brockett's,  it  isn't  often  that  we 
see  him — I  know  that  you  will  be  his  true  friend  in  every 
sense  of  the  word — and  help  him — as  he  ought  to  be  helped. 
It  is  so  little  that  I  can  do.  .  .  .' 

"  Her  voice  was  sad.  I  am  afraid  she  suffers  a  great 
deal.  She  is  evidently  greatly  attached  to  Peter — I  liked 
her. 

"  Well,  you  in  your  sober  way  will  say  that  this  is  all  a 
great  deal  of  nonsense.  Why  shouldn't  Peter,  if  he  wishes, 
say  that  he  is  happy.''  All  I  can  say  is  that  if  you  your- 
self had  been  there.  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER  VIII 
BUNDS  DOWN 


IT  was  not  until  Stephen  Westcott  had  rejoiced  in  the 
glories  (so  novel  and  so  thrilling)  of  his  first  birthday 
and  "  The  Stone  House  "  had  been  six  months  before  the 
public  eye  that  the  effect  of  this  second  book  could  be  prop- 
erly estimated.  Second  books  are  the  most  surely  foredoomed 
creatures  in  all  creation  and  there  are  many  excellent  rea- 
sons for  this.  They  will  assuredly  disappoint  the  expecta- 
tions of  those  who  enjoyed  the  first  work,  and  the  author 
will,  in  all  probability,  have  been  tempted  by  his  earlier 
success  to  try  his  wings  further  than  they  are,  as  yet,  able 
to  carry  him. 

Peter's  failure  was  only  partial.  There  was  no  question 
that  "  The  Stone  House  "  was  a  remarkable  book.  Had  it 
been  Peter's  first  novel  it  must  have  made  an  immense  stir ;  it 
showed  that  he  was,  in  no  kind  of  way,  a  man  of  one  book, 
and  it  gave,  in  its  London  scenes,  proof  that  its  author  was 
not  limited  to  one  kind  of  life  and  one  kind  of  background. 
There  were  chapters  that  were  fuller,  wiser,  in  every  way 
more  mature  than  anything  in  "  Reuben  Hallard." 

But  it  was  amazingly  unequal.  There  were  places  in 
it  that  had  no  kind  of  life  at  all;  at  times  Peter  appeared  to 
have  beheld  his  scenes  and  characters  through  a  mist,  to  have 
been  dragged  right  away  from  any  kind  of  vision  of  the  book, 
to  have  written  wildly,  blindly. 

The  opinion  of  Mrs.  Launce  was  perhaps  the  soundest 
that  it  was  possible  to  have  because  that  good  lady,  in 
spite  of  her  affection  for  Peter,  had  a  critical  judgment  that 
was  partly  literary,  partly  commercial,  and  partly  human. 
She  always  judged  a  book  first  with  her  brain,  then  with 
her  heart  and  lastly  with  her  knowledge  of  her  fellow 
creatures.  "It  may  pay  better  than  '  Reuben  Hallard,* 
she  said,  "  there's  more  love  interest  and  it  ends  happily. 
Some  of  it  is  beautifully  written,  some  of  it  quite  unspeak- 

S54 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  355 

ably.  But  really,  Peter,  it's  the  most  uneven  thing  I've 
ever  read.  Again  and  again  one  is  caught,  held,  stirred — 
then,  suddenly,  you  slip  away  altogether — you  aren't  there 
at  all,  nothing's  there,  I  could  put  my  finger  on  the  places. 
Especially  the  first  chapters  and  the  last  chapters — the 
middle's  splendid — what  happened  to  you?  .  .  .  But  it 
will  sell,  I  expect.  Tell  your  banker  to  read  it,  go  into 
lots  of  banks  and  tell  them.  Bank  clerks  have  subscrip- 
tions at  circulating  libraries  always  given  them  .  .  .  but 
the  wild  bits  are  best,  the  wild  bits  are  splendid — that  bit 
about  the  rocks  at  night  .  .  .  you  don't  know  much  about 
women  yet — your  girls  are  awfully  bad.  By  the  way,  do 
you  know  that  Mary  Hollins  is  only  getting  XlOO  advance 
next  time.''  All  she  can  get,  that  last  thing  was  so  shock- 
ing. I  hear  that  that  book  about  an  immoral  violet,  by  that 
new  young  man — Rondel,  isn't  it? — is  still  having  a  most 
enormous  success — I  know  that  Barratt's  got  in  a  whole 
batch  of  new  copies  last  night — I  hear  .  .  ." 

Mrs.  Launce  was  disappointed — Peter  could  tell  well 
enough.  He  received  some  laudatory  reviews,  some  letters 
from  strangers,  some  adulation  from  people  who  knew 
nothing  whatever.  He  did  not  know  what  it  was  exactly 
that  he  had  expected — but  whatever  it  was  that  he  wanted, 
he  did  not  get  it — he  was  dissatisfied. 

He  began  to  blame  his  publishers — they  had  not  adver- 
tised him  enough;  he  even,  secretly,  cherished  that  most 
hopeless  of  all  convictions — that  his  book  was  above  the 
heads  of  the  public.  He  noticed,  also,  that  wherever  he 
might  be,  this  name  of  Rondel  appeared  before  him,  Mr. 
Rondel  with  his  foolish  face  and  thin  mother  in  black,  was 
obviously  the  young  man  of  the  moment — in  the  literary 
advertisements  of  any  of  the  weekly  papers  you  might  see 
The  Violet  novel  in  its  tenth  edition  and  "  The  Stone  House  " 
by  Peter  Westcott,  second  edition  selling  rapidly. 

He  was  again  bewildered,  as  he  had  been  after  the  pub- 
lication of  "  Reuben  Hallard  "  by  the  extraordinary  variance 
of  opinions  amongst  reviewers  and  amongst  his  own  per- 
sonal friends.  One  man  told  him  that  he  had  no  style, 
that  he  must  learn  the  meaning  and  feeling  of  words,  an- 
other told  him  that  his  characters  were  weak  but  that  hia 
style  was  "  splendid — a  real  knowledge  of  the  value  and 


856  FORTITUDE 

meaning  of  words."  Some  one  told  him  that  he  knew  noth- 
ing at  all  about  women  and  some  one  else  that  his  women 
were  by  far  the  best  part  of  his  work.  The  variety  was 
endless — amongst  those  who  had  appeared  to  him  giants 
there  was  the  same  imcertainty.  He  seemed  too  to  detect 
with  the  older  men  a  desire  to  praise  those  parts  of  his 
work  that  resembled  their  own  productions  and  to  blame 
anything  that  gave  promise  of  originality. 

For  himself  it  seemed  to  him  that  Mrs.  Launce's  opinion 
was  nearest  the  truth.  There  were  parts  of  it  that  were 
good,  chapters  that  were  better  than  anything  in  "  Reuben 
Hallard  "  and  then  again  there  were  many  chapters  where  he 
saw  it  all  in  a  fog,  groped  dimly  for  his  characters,  pushed, 
as  it  seemed  to  him,  away  from  their  lives  and  interests, 
by  the  actual  lives  and  interests  of  the  real  people  about 
him.  This  led  him  to  think  of  Clare  and  here  he  was 
suddenly  arrested  by  a  perception,  now  only  dimly  grasped, 
of  a  change  in  her  attitude  to  his  writings.  He  dated  it, 
thinking  of  it  now  for  the  first  time,  from  the  birth  of 
young  Stephen — or  was  it  not  earlier  than  that,  on  that 
evening  when  they  had  met  Cards  at  that  supper  party,  on 
that  evening  of  their  first  quarrel? 

In  the  early  days  how  well  he  remembered  Clare's  en- 
thusiasm— a  little  extravagant,  it  seemed  now.  Then  dur- 
ing the  first  year  of  their  married  life  she  had  wanted  to 
know  everything  about  the  making  of  "  The  Stone  House." 
It  was  almost  as  though  it  had  been  a  cake  or  a  pie,  and  he 
knew  that  he  had  found  her  questions  difficult  to  answer 
and  that  he  had  had  it  driven  in  upon  him  that  it  was  not 
really  because  she  was  interested  in  the  subtleties  of  his 
art  that  she  enquired  but  because  of  her  own  personal  af- 
fection for  him;  if  he  had  been  making  boots  or  a  suit  of 
clothes  it  would  have  been  just  the  same.  Then  when  "  The 
Stone  House  "  appeared  her  eagerness  for  its  success  had 
been  tremendous — there  was  nothing  she  would  not  do  to 
help  it  along — but  that,  he  somewhat  ironically  discovered, 
was  because  she  liked  success  and  the  tilings  that  success 
brought. 

Then  when  the  book  had  not  succeeded— or  only  so  very 
little — her  interest  had,  of  a  sudden,  subsided.  "Oh!  I 
suppose  you've  got  to  go  and  do  your  silly  old  writing  .  .  . 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  857 

I  think  you  might  come  out  "with  me  just  this  afternoon. 
It  isn't  often  that  I  ask  anything  of  you.  .  .  ."  He  did 
not  believe  that  she  had  ever  really  finished  "  The  Stone 
House."  She  pretended  that  she  had — "  the  end  was  sim- 
ply perfect,"  but  she  was  vague,  nebulous.  He  found  the 
marker  in  her  copy,  some  fifty  pages  before  the  end. 

She  was  so  easily  impressed  by  every  one  whom  she  met 
that  perhaps  the  laughing  attitude  of  Cards  to  Peter's  books 
had  something  to  do  with  it  all.  Cards  affected  to  despise 
anything  to  do  with  work,  here  to-day,  gone  to-morrow — • 
let  us  eat  and  drink  .  .  .  dear  old  Peter,  grubbing  away 
upstairs — "  I  say,  Mrs.  Westcott,  let's  go  and  rag 
him.  .  .  ."  And  then  they  had  come  and  invaded  his  room 
at  the  top  of  the  house,  and  sometimes  he  had  been  glad 
and  had  flung  his  work  down  as  though  it  were  of  no  ac- 
count .  .  .  and  then  afterwards,  in  the  middle  of  some  tea- 
party  he  had  been  suddenly  ashamed,  deeply,  bitterly 
ashamed,  as  though  he  had  actually  wounded  those  white 
pages  lying  up  there  in  his  quiet  room. 

He  was  at  this  time,  like  a  man  jostled  and  pushed  and 
turned  about  at  some  riotous  fair;  looking,  now  this  way, 
now  that,  absorbed  by  a  thousand  sights,  a  thousand  sounds 
■ — and  always  through  it  all  feeling,  bitterly  in  his  heart, 
that  something  dear  to  him,  somewhere  in  some  place  of 
silence,  was  dying — 

Well,  hang  it  all,  at  any  rate  there  was  the  Child! 


n 

At  any  rate  there  was  the  Child! 

And  what  a  child!  Did  any  one  ever  have  a  baby  like 
it,  so  fat  and  round  and  white,  with  its  head  already  cov- 
ered with  faint  golden  silk,  its  eyes  grey  and  wondering — 
with  its  sudden  gravities,  its  amazing  joys  and  terrific  hu- 
mour, the  beauty  of  its  stepping  away,  as  it  did,  suddenly 
without  any  warning,  behind  a  myriad  mists  and  curtains, 
into  some  other  land  that  it  knew  of.  How  amazing  to 
watch  it  as  it  slowly  forgot  all  the  things  that  it  had  come 
into  the  world  remembering,  as  it  slowly  realised  all  the 
laws  that  this  new  order  of  things  demanded  of  its  obedi- 
ence.    Could  any  one  who  had  been  present  ever  forget 


358  FORTITUDE 

its  crow  of  ecstasy  at  the  first  shaft  of  sunlight  that  it  ever 
beheld,  at  its  first  realisation  of  the  blue,  shining  ball  that 
Peter  bought,  at  its  first  vision,  through  the  window,  of 
falling  snow ! 

Peter  was  drunk  with  this  amazing  wonder.  All  the 
facts  of  life — even  Clare  and  his  work — faded  before  this 
new  presence  for  whose  existence  he  had  been  responsible. 
It  had  been  one  of  the  astonishing  things  about  Clare  that 
she  had  taken  the  child  so  quietly.  He  had  seen  her  f 
thrilled  by  musical  comedy,  by  a  dance  at  the  Palace  Music 
Hall,  by  the  trumpery  pathos  of  a  tenth-rate  novel — before  i 
this  marvel  she  stood,  it  seemed  to  him,  without  any  emotion,    i 

Sometimes   he   thought  that  if  it  had   not  been   for   his    ^ 
reminder  she  would  not  have  gone  to  kiss  the  child  good-    ' 
night.     There   were  many   occasions   when   he   knew — with 
wonder  and  almost  dismay — that  she  was  afraid  of  it;  and 
once,   when    they   had   been   in   the   nursery   together    and 
young  Stephen  had  cried  and  kicked  his  heels  in  a  tempest    i 
of  rage,  she  had  seemed  almost  to  cling  to  Peter  for  pro-   I 
tection. 

There  were  occasions  when  Peter  fancied  that  the  baby 
seemed  the  elder  of  the  two,  it  was  at  any  rate  certain  that 
Stephen   Westcott  was   not  so  afraid  of  his  mother  as   his 
mother   was   of   him.     And  yet,   Peter   fancied,   that  could 
Clare   only   get  past  this   strange  nervous   fear  she  would 
love  the  baby  passionately — would  love  him  with  that  same  j 
fierceness    of   passion    that   she    flung,   curiously,   now   and  ' 
again    upon    Peter   himself.     "  Let   me   be   promised,"   she 
seemed  to  say,  "  that  I  will  never  have  any  trouble  or  sor-   I 
row  with  my  son  and  I  will  love  him  devotedly."     Mean-    \ 
while  she  went  into  every  excitement  that  life  could  pro- 
vide   for   her,  .  .  . 

It  was  on  a  March  afternoon  of  early  Spring  after  a 
lonely  tea  (Clare  was  out  at  one  of  her  parties)  that  Peter 
went  up  to  the  nursery.  He  had  just  finished  reading 
the  second  novel  by  that  Mr.  Rondel  whose  Violet  sensation 
had  occurred  some  two  years  before.  This  second  book 
was  good — there  was  no  doubt  about  it — and  Peter  was 
ashamed  of  a  kind  of  dim  reluctance  in  his  acknowledg- 
ment of  its  quality.  The  fellow  had  had  such  reviews;  the 
book,   although    less   sensational   than   its   predecessor   had 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  359 

hit  the  public  straight  in  the  middle  of  its  susceptible  heart. 
Had  young  Rondel  done  it  all  with  bad  work — well,  that 
was  common  enough — but  the  book  was  good,  uncommonly 
good. 

He  sent  the  nurse  downstairs  and  began  to  build  an 
elaborate  fortress  on  the  nursery  floor.  The  baby  lay  on 
his  back  on  a  rug  by  the  fire  and  contemplated  his  woollen 
shoe  which  he  slowly  dragged  off  and  disdainfully  flung 
away.  Then,  crowing  to  himself,  he  watched  his  father 
and  the  world  in  general. 

He  was  amazingly  like  Peter — the  grey  eyes,  the  mouth 
/  a  little  stern,  a  little  sulky,  the  snub  nose,  the  arms  a  little 
short  and  thick,  and  that  confident,  happy  smile. 

He  watched  his  father. 

To  him,  lying  on  the  rug,  many,  many  miles  away  there 
was  a  coloured  glory  that  ran  round  the  upper  part  of  the 
wall — as  yet,  he  only  knew  that  they  gave  him,  those  col- 
ours, something  of  the  same  pleasure  that  his  milk  gave 
him,  that  the  warm,  glowing,  noisy  shapes  beyond  the  car- 
pet gave  him,  that  the  happy,  comfortable  smell  of  the 
Thing  playing  near  him  on  the  floor  gave  him.  About 
the  Thing  he  was  eternally  perplexed.  It  was  Something 
that  made  sounds  that  he  liked,  that  pressed  his  body  in 
a  way  that  he  loved,  that  took  his  fingers  and  his  toes  and 
made  them  warm  and  comfortable. 

It  was  Something  moreover  from  which  delicious  things 
hung — things  that  he  could  clutch  and  hold  and  pull.  He 
was  perplexed  but  he  knew  that  when  this  Thing  was  near 
him  he  was  warm  and  happy  and  contented  and  generally 
went  to  sleep.  His  eyes  slowly  travelled  round  the  room 
and  rested  finally  upon  a  round  blue  ball  that  hung  turn- 
ing a  little  from  side  to  side,  on  a  nail  above  his  bed.  This 
•was,  to  him,  the  final  triumph  of  existence — to  have  it  in 
his  hand,  to  roll  it  round  and  round,  to  bang  it  down  upon 
the  floor  and  watch  it  jump,  this  was  the  reason  why  one 
•was  here,  this  the  solution  of  all  perplexities.  He  would 
have  liked  to  have  it  in  his  hands  now,  so  crowing,  he  smiled 
pleasantly  at  the  Thing  on  the  floor  beside  him  and  then 
looked  at  the  ball. 

Peter  got  up  from  his  knees,  fetched  the  ball  down  and 
rolled   it   along   the   floor.     As   it   came   dancing,   curving. 


S60  FORTITUDE 

laughing  along  yoxing  Stephen  shrieked  with  delight. 
Would  he  have  it  in  his  hands  or  would  it  escape  him  and 
disappear  altogether?  Would  it  come  to  him?  ...  It 
came  and  was  clutched  and  held  and  triumphed  over. 

Peter  sat  down  by  his  son  and  began  to  tell  him  about 
Cornwall.  He  often  did  this,  partly  because  the  mere  men- 
tioning of  names  and  places  satisfied  some  longing  in  his 
heart,  partly  because  he  wanted  Cornwall  to  be  the  first 
thing  that  yoimg  Stephen  would  realise  as  soon  as  he  real- 
ised anything.  "  And  you  never  can  tell,  you  know,  how 
soon  a  child  can  begin.  .  .  ." 

Stephen,  turning  the  blue  ball  round  and  round  in  his 
fingers,  gravely  listened.  He  was  perfectly  contented. 
He  liked  the  sounds  that  circled  about  him — his  father's 
voice,  the  rustle  of  the  fire,  the  murmur  of  something  be- 
yond the  walls  that  he  could  not  understand. 

"  And  then,  you  see,  Stephen,  if  you  go  up  the  hill  and 
round  to  the  right  you  come  to  the  market-place,  all  cov- 
ered with  shiny  cobbles  and  once  a  ^veek  filled  with  stalls 
where  people  sell  things.  At  the  other  end  of  it,  facing 
you,  there's  an  old  Tower  that's  been  there  for  ages  and 
ages.  It's  got  a  fruit  stall  underneath  it  now,  but  once, 
years  ago  there  was  fighting  there  and  men  were  killed. 
Then,  if  you  go  past  it,  and  out  to  the  right,  you  get  into 
the  road  that  leads  out  of  the  town.  It  goes  right  above 
the  sea  and  on  a  fine-day — " 

"  Peter !  " 

The  voice  broke  like  a  stone  shattering  a  sheet  of  glass. 
The  ball  dropped  from  young  Stephen's  hands.  He  felt 
suddenly  cold  and  hungry  and  wanted  his  woollen  shoe. 
He  was  not  sure  whether  he  would  not  cry.  He  would 
wait  a  moment  and  see  how  matters  developed. 

Peter  jumped  to  his  feet  and  faced  Clare:  Clare  in  a  fur 
cap  from  beneath  which  her  golden  hair  seemed  to  bum  in 
anger,  from  beneath  which  her  eyes,  furiously  attacked 
his.  Of  course  she  had  heard  him  talking  to  the  baby  about 
Cornwall.  They  had  quarrelled  about  it  before  ...  he 
had  thought  that  she  was  at  her  silly  tea-party.  His  face 
that  had  been,  a  few  moments  before,  gentle,  humorous, 
happy,  now  suddenly  wore  the  sullen  defiance  of  a  sulky 
boy. 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  361 

Her  breast  was  heaving,  her  little  hands  beat  against  her 
frock. 

"  He  shan't/'  she  broke  out  at  last,   "  hear  about  it." 

"  Of  all  the  nonsense,"  Peter  answered  her  slowly. 
"  Really,  Clare,  sometimes  I  think  you're  about  two  years 
old—" 

"  He  shan't  hear  about  it,"  she  repeated  again.  "  You 
don't  care — you  don't  care  what  I  think  or  what  I  say — 
I'm  his  mother — I  have  the  right — " 

The  baby  looked  at  them  both  with  wondering  eyes  and 
to  any  outside  observer  would  surely  have  seemed  the  eldest 
of  the  three.  Clare's  breath  came  in  little  pants  of  rage — 
"  You  know — ^that  I  hate — all  mention  of  that  place — ^those 
people.  It  doesn't  matter  to  you — ^you  never  think  of 
me — " 

"  At  any  rate,"  he  retorted,  "  if  you  were  up  here  in 
the  nursery  more  often  you  would  be  able  to  take  care 
that  Stephen's  innocent  ears  weren't  insulted  with  my  vul- 
gar conversation — " 

It  was  then  that  he  saw,  behind  Clare,  in  the  doorway, 
the  dark  smiling  face  of  Cards. 

Cards  came  forward.  "  Really,  you  two,"  he  said,  laugh- 
ing. "  Peter,  old  man,  don't  be  absurd — you  too,  Clare  " 
(he  called  her  Clare  now). 

The  anger  died  out  of  Clare's  eyes :  "  Well,  he  knows  I 
hate  him  talking  about  that  nasty  old  town  to  the  baby — " 
Then,  in  a  moment,  she  was  smiling  again — "  I'm  sorry, 
Peter.  Cards  is  quite  right,  and  anyhow  the  baby  doesn't 
understand — " 

She  stood  smiling  in  front  of  him  but  the  frown  did  not 
leave  his  face. 

"  Oh !  it's  all  right,"  he  said  sullenly,  and  he  brushed 
past  them  up  the  stairs,  to  his  own  room. 

m 

From  the  silence  of  his  room  he  thought  that  he  could 
hear  them  laughing  about  it  downstairs.  "  Silly  old  Peter 
— always  getting  into  tempers — "  Well,  was  he?  And 
after  all  hadn't  it  been,  this  time,  her  affair?  Stephen 
and  he  had  been  happy  enough  before  the  others  had  come 


SeZ  FORTITUDE 

in.  What  was  this  senseless  dislike  of  Clare's  to  Cornwall? 
What  could  it  matter  to  her?  It  was  always  cropping  up 
now.  He  could  think  of  a  thousand  occasions,  lately,  when 
she  had  been  roused  by  it. 

But,   as   he   paced,  with    frowning   face,   back   and   for- 
wards across  the  room,  there  was  sometliing  more  puzzling 
still  that  had  to  be  thought  about.     Why  did  they  quarrel  \ 
about  such  tiny  things.^     In  novels,  in  good,  reliable  novels,  I 
it  was   always   the    big  things   about   which   people   fought.  * 
Whoever  heard  of  two  people  quarrelling  because  one  of 
them  wanted  to  talk  about  Cornwall?  and  yet  it  was  pre- 
cisely concerning  things  just  as  trivial  that  they  were  al- 
ways now  disputing.     Why  need  they  quarrel  at  all?     In 
the  first  year  there  had  always  been  peace.     Why  shouldn't 
there   be   peace   now?     Where   exactly   lay   Clare's   altered 
attitude  to  himself,  to  his  opinions,  to  the  world  in  general. 
If  he  yielded  to  her  demands — and  he  had  yielded  on  many 
more  occasions  than  was  good   either  for  her  or  himself —  | 
she   had,   he   fancied,  laughed  at  him  for  being  so  easily  j 
defeated.     If  he  had  not  yielded  then  she  had  been,  imme- I 
diately,  impossible.  .  .  . 

And  yet,  after  their  quarrels,  there  had  been  the  most 
wonderful,  precious  reconciliations,  reconciliations  that,  even 
now  at  his  thought  of  them,  made  his  heart  beat  faster. 
Now,  soon,  when  he  went  downstairs  to  dress  for  dinner, 
she  would  come  to  him,  he  knew,  and  beg  most  beautifully, 
his  pardon.  But  to-night  it  seemed  suddenly  that  this  kind 
of  thing  had  happened  too  often  lately.  He  felt,  poor 
Peter,  bewildered.  There  seemed  to  be,  on  every  side  of 
him,  so  many  things  that  he  was  called  upon  to  manage 
and  he  was  so  unable  to  manage  any  of  them.  He  stopped 
in  his  treading  to  and  fro  and  stared  at  the  long  deal  writ- 
ing-table at  which  he  always  worked. 

There,  waiting  for  him,  were  the  first  chapters  of  his 
new  novel,  "  Mortimer  Slant."  In  the  same  way,  two  years 
ago,  he  had  stared  at  the  early  chapters  of  "  The  Stone 
House,"  on  that  morning  before  he  had  gone  to  propose  to 
Clare.  Now  there  flashed  through  his  mind  the  wonderful 
things  that  he  intended  "  Mortimer  Stant  "  to  be.  It  was  to 
concern  a  man  of  forty  (in  his  confident  selection  of  that 
age  he  displayed,  most  stridently,  his  own  youth)  and  Mor- 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  36^ 

timer  was  to  be  a  stolid,  reserved  Philistine,  who  was,  against 
his  will,  by  outside  forces,  dragged  into  an  emotional  crisis. 

At  the  back  of  his  mind  he  had,  perhaps,  Maradick  for 
his  figure,  but  that  was  almost  unconscious.  "  Mortimer 
Stant  "  was  to  represent  a  wonderful  duel  between  the  two 
camps — the  Artists  and  the  Philistines — with  ultimate  vic- 
tory, of  course,  for  the  Artists.  It  was  to  be.  .  .  .  Well 
what  was  it  to  be?  At  present  the  stolid  Mortimer  was 
hidden  behind  a  phalanx  of  people — Clare,  young  Stephen, 
Cards,  Bobby,  Mrs.  Rossiter  (tiresome  woman),  AHce  Gal- 
leon— That  was  it.  It  was  hidden,  hidden  just  as  parts 
of  "  The  Stone  House  "  had  been  hidden,  but  hidden  more 
deeply — a  regular  jungle  of  interests  and  occupations  was 
creeping,  stealthily,  stealthily  upon  him. 

And  then  his  eye  fell  upon  an  open  letter  that  lay  on  his. 
table,  and,  at  the  sight  of  it,  he  was  seized  with  a  burning 
sense  of  shame.     How  could  he  have  forgotten? 

The  letter  ran — 

My  dear  Mr.  Westcott, 

You  have  not  been  to  see  me  for  many  months.  Further 
opportunities  may,  by  the  hand  of  God,  he  denied  you. 

Come  if  you  can  spare  the   time. 

Henry  Galleon. 

The  words  were  written,  feebly  almost  illegibly,  in  pen- 
cil. Peter  knew  that  Bobby  had  been,  for  many  weeks, 
very  anxious  concerning  his  father's  health,  and  during  the 
last  few  days  he  had  abandoned  the  City  and  spent  all  his 
time  at  home.  That  letter  had  come  this  very  morning  and 
Peter  had  intended  to  go  at  once  and  inquire.  The  fact 
that  he  had  left  all  these  months  without  going  to  see  the  old 
man  rose  before  him  now  like  an  accusing  hand.  He  de- 
served, indeed,  whatever  the  Gods  might  choose  to  send 
him,  if  he  could  so  wilfully  neglect  his  duty.  But  he  knew 
that  there  had  been,  in  the  back  of  his  mind,  shame.  His 
work  had  not,  so  he  might  have  put  it  to  himself,  been  good 
enough  to  justify  his  presence.  There  would  have  been 
questions  asked,  questions  that  he  might  have  found  it  diffi- 
cult, indeed,  to  answer. 

But  now  the  sight  of  that  letter  immediately  encouraged 
him.     Henry  Galleon,  even  though  he  was  too  ill  to  talk. 


6^4  FORTITUDE 

would  put  him  right  with  all  his  perplexities,  would  give 
him  courage  to  cut  through  all  these  complications  that  had 
been  gathering,  lately,  so  thickly  about  him.  "  This,"  the 
room  seemed  to  whisper  to  him,  "  is  your  chance.  After 
all,  you  are  given  this  opportunity.  See  him  once  before 
he  dies  and  your  fate  will  be  shown  you,  clearly,  honestly." 

He  stepped  out  of  the  house  unperceived  and  was  im- 
mediately conscious  of  the  Spring  night.  Spring — with  a 
precipitancy  and  extravagance  that  seems  to  be — to  own 
peculiar  quality  in  London — had  leapt  upon  the  streets. 

The  Embankment  was  bathed  in  the  evening  glow. 
Clouds,  like  bales  of  golden  wool,  sailed  down  a  sky  so 
faintly  blue  that  the  white  light  of  a  departed  sun  seemed 
to  glow  behind  it.  The  lamps  were  crocus-coloured  against 
black  barges  that  might  have  been  loaded  with  yellow  prim- 
roses so  did  they  hint,  through  their  darkness,  at  the  yel- 
low haze  around  them. 

The  silence  was  melodious;  the  long  line  of  dark  houses 
watched  like  prisoners  from  behind  their  iron  bars.  They 
might  expect,  it  seemed,  the  Spring  to  burst  through  the 
flagstones    at   their    feet. 

Peter's  heart  was  lightened  of  all  its  burden.  He  shared 
the  glory,  the  intoxication  of  the  promise  that  was  on  every 
side  of  him.  On  such  a  night  great  ambitions,  great  ideals, 
great  lovers  were  created. 

He  saw  Henry  Galleon,  from  behind  his  window,  watch- 
ing the  pageant.  He  saw  him  gaining  new  life,  getting 
np  from  his  bed  of  sickness,  writing  anew  his  great  master- 
pieces. And  he  saw  himself,  Peter  Westcott,  learning  at 
last  from  the  Master  the  rule  and  discipline  of  life.  All 
the  muddle,  the  confusion  of  this  lazy  year  should  be  healed. 
He  and  Clare  should  see  with  the  same  eyes.  She  should 
understand  his  need  for  work,  he  should  understand  her 
need  for  help.  All  should  be  happiness  and  victory  in  this 
glorious  world   and  he,  by  the   Master's  side,  should  .  .  . 

He  stopped  suddenly.  The  house  that  had  been  Henry 
Galleon's  was  blank  and  dead. 

At  every  window  the  blinds  were  down.  ... 


v 


CHAPTER  IX 
WILD  MEN 


TO  Peter's  immediate  world  it  was  a  matter  of  surprise 
that  he  should  take  Henry  Galleon's  death  so  hardly. 
It  is  a  penalty  of  greatness  that  you  should^  to  the  majority 
of  yourielTow  men,  be  an  Idea  rather  than  a  human  being. 
To  his  own  family  Henry  Galleon  had,  of  course,  been  real 
enough  but  to  the  outside  world  he  was  the  author  of  "  Henry 
Lessingham  "  and  "  The  Roads,"  whose  face  one  saw  in  the 
papers  as  one  saw  the  face  of  Royalty.  Peter  Westcott, 
moreover,  had  not  appeared,  at  any  time,  to  take  more  than 
a  general  interest  in  the  great  man,  and  it  was  even  under- 
stood that  old  Mrs.  Galleon  and  Millicent  and  Percival  con- 
sidered themselves  somewhat  affronted  because  the  Master 
had  "  been  exceedingly  kind  to  the  young  man.  Taken 
trouble  about  him,  tried  to  know  him,  but  young  Westcott 
had  allowed  the  thing  to  drop — had  not  been  near  him  dur- 
ing the  last  year." 

Even  Bobby  and  Alice  Galleon  were  astonished  at  Peter's 
grief.  To  Bobby  his  father's  death  came  as  a  fine  ending 
to  a  fine  career.  He  had  died,  full  of  honour  and  of  years. 
Even  Bobby,  who  thought  that  he  knew  his  Peter  pretty 
well  by  now,  was  puzzled. 

"  He  takes  it,"  Bobby  explained  to  Alice,  "  as  though  it 
were  a  kind  of  omen,  sees  ever  so  much  more  in  it  than  any 
of  us  do.  It  seems  that  he  was  coming  round  the  very 
evening  that  father  died  to  talk  to  him,  and  that  he  sud- 
denly saw  the  blinds  down ;  it  was  a  shock  to  him,  of  course. 
I  tWnk  it's  all  been  a  kind  of  remorse  working  out,  re- 
morse not  only  for  having  neglected  my  father  but  for 
having  left  other  things — his  work,  I  suppose,  rather  to  look 
after  themselves.  But  he  won't  tell  me,"  Bobby  almost 
desperately  concluded,  "  he  won't  tell  me  anything — he 
really  is  the  most  extraordinary  chap." 

366 


866  FORTITUDE 

And  Peter  found  it  difficult  enough  to  tell  himself,  did 
not  indeed  try.  He  only  knew  that  he  felt  an  acute,  pas- 
sionate remorse  and  that  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  denial 
of  that  last  visit  was  an  omen  of  the  anger  of  all  the  Gods, 
and  even — although  to  this  last  he  gave  no  kind  of  expres- 
sion— the  malicious  contrivance  of  an  old  man  who  waited 
for  him  down  there  in  that  house  by  the  sea.  It  was  as 
though  gates  had  been  clanged  in  his  face,  and  that  as  he 
beard  them  close  he  heard  also  the  jeering  laughter  behind 
them.  .  .  .  He  bad  missed  his  chance. 

He  saw,  instantly,  that  Clare  understood  none  of  this, 
and  that,  indeed,  she  took  it  all  as  rather  an  affectation  on 
his  part,  something  in  him  that  belonged  to  that  side  of 
him  that  she  tried  to  forget.  She  hated,  quite  frankly, 
that  he  should  go  about  the  house  with  a  glum  face  because 
an  old  man,  whom  he  had  never  taken  the  trouble  to  go 
and  see  when  he  was  alive,  was  now  dead.  She  showed 
him  that  she  hated  it. 

He  turned  desperately  to  his  work.  There  had  been  a 
hint,  only  the  other  day,  from  the  newspaper  for  which  he 
wrote,  that  his  reviews  had  not,  lately,  been  up  to  his  usual 
standard.  He  knew  that  they  seemed  to  him  twice  as  dif- 
ficult to  do  as  they  had  seemed  a  year  ago  and  that  there- 
fore he  did  them  twice  as  badly. 

He  flung  himself  upon  his  book  and  swore  that  he  would 
dissipate  the  shadows  that  hid  it  from  him.  One  of  the 
shadows  he  saw  quite  clearly  was  Cards'  attitude  to  his 
work.  It  was  strange,  he  thought  almost  pathetically,  how 
closely  his  feeling  for  Cards  now  resembled  the  feeling 
that  he  had  had,  those  years  ago,  at  Dawson's.  He  still 
worshipped  him — worship  was  the  only  p>ossible  word — 
worshipped  him  for  all  the  things  that  lie,  Peter,  was  not. 
One  could  not  be  with  him,  Peter  thought,  one  could  not 
watch  his  movements,  hear  his  voice  without  paying  it  all 
the  most  absolute  reverence.  The  glamour  about  Cards 
was,  to  Peter,  something  almost  from  another  world. 
Peter  felt  so  clumsy,  so  rough  and  ugly  and  noisy  and  out- 
of-place  when  Cards  was  present  that  the  fact  that  Cards 
was  almost  always  present  now  made  life  a  very  difficult 
thing.  How  could  Peter  prevent  himself  from  reverencing 
every  word  that  Cards  uttered  when  one  reflected  upon  the 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  367 

number  of  things  that  Cards  had  done,  the  things  that  he 
had  seen,  the  places  to  which  he  had  been.  And  Cards' 
attitude  to  Peter's  work  was,  if  not  actually  contemptuous, 
at  least  something  very  like  it.  He  did  not,  he  professed, 
read  novels.  The  novelists'  trade  at  the  best,  he  seemed 
to  imply,  was  only  a  poor  one,  and  that  Peter's  work  was 
not  altogether  of  the  best  he  almost  openly  asserted. 
"  What  can  old  Peter  know  about  life  ?  "  one  could  hear 
him  saying — "Where's  he  been?  Who's  he  known? 
Whatever  in  the  world  has  he  done  ?  " 

Against  this,  in  spite  of  the  glitter  that  shone  about 
Cards'  head,  Peter  might,  perhaps,  have  stood.  He  re- 
minded himself,  a  hundred  times  a  day,  that  one  must  not 
(care  about  the  things  that  other  people  said,  one  must 
have  one's  eyes  fixed  upon  the  goal — one  must  be  sure  of 
oneself — what  had  Galleon  said?  .  .  . 
But  there  was  also  the  effect  of  it  all  upon  Clare  to  be 
considered.  Clare  listened  to  Cards.  She  was,  Peter 
gloomily  considered,  very  largely  of  Cards'  opinion.  The 
two  people  for  whom  he  cared  most  in  the  world  after 
young  Stephen  who,  as  a  critic,  had  not  yet  begun  to  count, 
thought  that  he  was  wasting  his  time. 
/^  Sometimes,  as  he  sat  at  his  deal  table,  fighting  with  a 
f  growing  sense  of  disillusionment  that  was  like  nothing  so 
much  as  a  child's  first  discovery  that  its  beautiful  doll  is 
stuffed  with  straw,  he  Would  wish  passionately,  vehemently 
for  the  return  of  those  days  when  he  had  sat  in  his  little 
bedroom  writing  "  Reuben  Hallard  "  with  Norah  Monogue, 
and  dear  Mr.  Zanti  and  even  taciturn  little  Gottfried,  there 
to  encourage  him. 

That  had  been  Adventure — ^but  this.  .  .  .  ?  And  then 
he  would  remember  young  Stephen  and  Clare — moments 
even  lately  that  she  had  shared  with  him — and  he  would  be 
ashamed. 


II 

It  was  on  an  afternoon  of  furious  wind  and  rain  in  early 
April  that  the  inevitable  occurred.  All  the  afternoon  the 
trees  in  the  little  orchard  had  been  knocking  their  branches 
together   as   though   they   were  in   a   furious   temper   with 


) 


868  FORTITUDE 

Somebody  and  were  indignant  at  not  being  allowed  to  get 
at  Him;  they  gave  you  the  impression  that  it  would  be 
quite  as  much  as  your  life  would  be  worth  to  venture  into 
their  midst. 

Peter  had,  during  a  number  of  hours,  endeavoured  to 
pierce  the  soul  of  Mortimer  Stant — meanwhile  as  the  wind 
howled,  the  rain  lashed  the  windows  of  his  room,  and  the 
personality  of  Mr.  Stant  faded  farther  and  farther  away 
into  ultimate  distance,  Peter  was  increasingly  conscious  that 
he  was  listening  for  something. 

He  had  felt  himself  surrounded  by  this  strange  sense  of 
anticip>ation  before.  Sometimes  it  had  stayed  with  him  for 
a  short  period  only,  sometimes  it  had  extended  over  days 
— always  it  brought  with  it  an  emotion  of  excitement  and 
even,  if  he  had  analysed  it  sufficiently,  fear. 

He  was  suddenly  conscious,  in  the  naked  spaces  of  his 
barely-furnished  room,  of  the  personality  of  his  father. 
So  conscious  was  he  that  he  got  up  from  his  table  and  stood 
at  the  rain-swept  window,  looking  out  into  the  orchard,  as 
though  he  expected  to  see  a  sinister  figure  creeping,  stealth- 
ily, from  behind  the  trees.  In  his  thoughts  of  his  father 
there  was  no  compunction,  no  accusing  scruples  of  neglect, 
only  a  perfectly  concrete,  active  sense,  in  some  vague  way, 
of  force  pitted  against  force. 

It  might  be  summed  up  in  the  conviction  that  "  the  old 
man  was  not  done  with  him  yet " — and  as  Peter  turned 
back  from  the  window,  almost  relieved  that  he  had,  indeed, 
seen  no  creeping  figure  amongst  the  dark  trees,  he  was 
aware  that  never  since  the  days  of  his  starvation  in  Bucket 
Lane,  had  he  been  so  conscious  of  those  threatening  mem- 
ories of  Scaw  House  and  its  inhabitants. 

At  that,  almost  as  he  reached  his  table,  there  was  a  knock 
on  his   door. 

"  Come  in,"  he  cried  and,  scorning  himself  for  his  fears, 
faced  the  maid  with  staring  eyes. 

"  Two  gentlemen  to  see  you,  sir,"  she  said.  "  I  have 
shown  them  into  the  study." 

"  Is  Mrs.  Westcott  in?" 

"  No,  sir.  She  told  me  that  she  would  not  be  back 
nntil  six  o'clock,  sir." 

"  I  will  come  down." 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  369 

In  the  hall,  hanging  amongst  the  other  things  as  a  Pirate 
might*  hang  beside  a  company  of  Evangelist  ministers,  was 
Stephen  Brant's  hat.  .  .  . 

As  Peter's  hand  turned  on  the  handle  of  the  study  door 
he  knew  that  his  heart  was  beating  with  so  furious  a  clam- 
our that  he  could  not  hear  the  lock  turn. 


lii 

He  entered  the  room  and  found  Stephen  Brant  and  Mr. 
Zanti  facing  him.  The  little  window  between  the  dim 
rows  of  books  showed  him  the  pale  light  that  was  soon  to 
succeed  the  storm.  The  two  men  seemed  to  fill  the  little 
room;  their  bodies  were  shadowy  and  mysterious  against 
the  pale  colour,  and  Peter  had  the  impression  that  the 
things  in  the  room — ^the  chairs,  the  books,  the  table — hud- 
dled against  the  wall,  so  crowded  did  the  place  seem. 

For  himself,  at  his  first  sight  of  them,  he  was  compelled, 
instantly,  to  check  a  feeling  of  joy  so  overwhelming  that  he 
was  himself  astonished  at  the  force  of  it.  To  them,  as  they 
stood  there,  smiling,  feeling  that  same  emotion  to  which  he, 
also,  was  now  succumbing !  He  checked  himself.  It  was 
as  though  he  were  forced  suddenly,  by  a  supreme  effort  of 
will,  to  drive  from  the  room  a  tumultuous  crowd  of  pictures, 
enthusiasms  and  memories,  that,  for  the  sake  of  the  pres- 
ent and  of  the  future,  must  be  forbidden  to  stay  with  him. 
It  was  absurd — he  was  a  husband,  a  father,  a  responsible 
householder,  almost  a  personage  .  .  .  and  yet,  as  he  looked 
at  Stephen's  eyes  and  Mr.  Zanti's  smile,  he  was  the  little 
boy  back  again  in  Tan's  shop  with  the  old  suit  of  armour, 
the  beads  and  silver  and  Eastern  cloths,  and  out  beyond  the 
window,  the  sea  was  breaking  upon  the  wooden  jetty.  .  .  . 

He  put  the  picture  away  from  him  and  rushed  to  greet 
the  two  of  them.  "  Zanti !  .  .  .  Stephen !  .  .  .  Oh !  how 
splendid !     How  perfectly,  perfectly  splendid !  " 

Mr.  Zanti's  enormous  body  was  enclosed  in  a  suit  of 
bright  blue,  his  broad  nose  stood  out  like  a  bridge,  his  wide 
mouth  gaped.  He  wore  white  spats,  three  massive  rings 
of  twisted  gold  and  in  his  blue  tie  a  glittering  emerald. 
He  was  a  magnificent,  a  costly  figure  and  in  nothing  was 
the  geniality  of  his  nature  more  plainly  seen  than  in  his 


370  FORTITUDE 

obvious  readiness  to  abandon,  at  any  moment,  these  splen- 
did riches  for  the  sake  of  a  valued  attachment.  "I  love 
wearing  these  things,"  you  might  hear  him  say,  "  but  I 
love  still  better  to  do  anything  in  the  world  that  I  can  for 
you,   my    friend." 

Stephen  presented  a  more  moderate  appearance,  but  he 
was  brown  with  health  and  shining  with  strength.  He  was 
like  the  old  Stephen  of  years  and  years  ago,  so  different 
from  the  man  who  had  shared  with  Peter  that  room  in 
Bucket   Lane. 

He  carried  himself  with  that  air  of  strong,  cautious  re- 
serve that  Cornishmen  have  when  they  are  in  some  other 
country  than  their  own;  his  eyes,  mild,  gentle,  but  on  the 
alert,  ready  at  an  instant  to  be  hostile.  Then,  when  Peter 
came  in,  the  reserve  instantly  fled.  They  had,  all  three 
of  them,  perhaps,  expected  embarrassment,  but  at  that  cry 
of  Peter's  they  were  suddenly  together,  Mr.  Zanti,  waving 
his  hands,  almost  shouting,  Stephen,  his  eyes  resting  with 
delight  on  Peter,  Peter  himself  another  creature  from  the 
man  who  had  pursued  Mortimer  Stant  in  the  room  upstairs, 
half  an  hour  before. 

"  We  thought  that  ze  time  'ad  come,  dear  boy  .  .  .  we 
know  zat  you  are  busy."  Mr.  Zanti  looked  about  him  a 
little  anxiously,  as  though  he  expected  to  find  Mrs.  Peter 
hiding  under  a  chair  or  a  sofa. 

"  Oh !  Stephen,  after  all  this  long  long  while !  Why 
didn't  you  come  before  when  Mr.  Zanti  came  ?  " 

"  Too  many  of  us  coming,  Mr.  Peter,  and  you  so  busy." 

"  Nonsense.  I'm  not  in  the  least  busy.  I'm  sorry  to 
say  my  wife's  out  but  the  baby's  in,  upstairs,  and  there's 
the  most  terrific  woman  up  there  too,  the  nurse — I'm  fright- 
ened out  of  my  life  of  her — but  we'll  get  rid  of  her  and 
have  the  place  to  ourselves  .  .  .  you  know  the  kid's  called 
after  you,  Stephen  }  " 

"No,  is  he  really?"  Stephen's  face  shone  with  pleas- 
ure,    "  I'm  keen  to  see  him." 

"  Oh,  he's  a  trump !  There  never  really  was  such  a 
Uby." 

"And  your  books,  Mr.  Peter?" 

"  Oh !  the  books !  "  Peter's  voice  dropped,  "  never  mind 
them   DP>7.     But    what   have   you   been   doin;z.   raa   two? 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  371 

Made  heaps  of  money?  Discovered  treasure?  .  .  ."  He 
pulled  himself  up  shortly.  He  remembered  the  bookshop, 
the  girl  leaning  against  the  door  looking  into  the  street, 
then  the  boys  crying  the  news.  .  .  . 

If  Mr.  Zanti  had  been  mixing  himself  up  with  that  sort 
of  thing  again!  And  then  the  bright  blue  suit,  the  white 
spats,  were  reassuring.  As  if  one  could  ever  take  such  a 
child  seriously  about  anything! 

Mr.  Zanti  shook  his  head,  ruefully.  "  No,  not  ezackly 
a  fortune!  There  was  a  place  I  'card  of,  right  up  in  the 
Basque  country — 'twas  an  old  deserted  garden,  where  zey 
'ad  buried  treasure,  centuries  ago — I  'ad  it  quite  certainly 
from  a  friend.  We  came  up  there  for  a  time  but  we  found 
nothing."  He  sighed  and  then  was  instantly  cheered  again. 
"  But  it's  all  right.  I've  got  a  plan  now — a  wonderful 
plan."  He  became  very  mysterious.  "  It's  a  certain 
thing — we're  off  to  Cornwall,  Mr.  Brant  and  myself — " 

"  Cornwall  ?  " 

"  Come  too,  Peter." 

"  Ah !  don't  I  wish  that  I  could !  "  He  suddenly  saw 
his  life,  his  books — everything  in  London  holding  him, 
tying  him — "  But  I  can't  go  now,  my  father  being  there 
makes  it  impossible.  But  in  any  case,  I'm  a  family  man 
now — you   know." 

As  he  said  the  words  he  was  conscious  that,  in  Stephen's 
eyes  at  any  rate,  the  family  man  was  about  the  last  thing 
that  he  looked.  He  was  wondering,  with  intense  curiosity, 
what  were  the  things  that  Stephen  was  finding  in  him,  for 
the  things  that  Stephen  found  were  most  assuredly  the 
things  that  he  was.  No  one  knew  him  as  Stephen  knew 
him.  Against  his  will  the  thought  of  Clare  came  driving 
upon  him.  How  little  she  knew  him!  or  was  it  only  that 
she  knew  another  side  of  him? 

But  he  pulled  himself  away  from  that.  "  Now  for  the 
nursery — Stephen  Secundus.  But  you'll  have  to  support 
me  whilst  I  get  rid  of  Mrs.  Kant — perhaps  three  of  us  to- 
gether— " 

As  he  led  the  way  upstairs  he  knew  that  Stephen  was 
not   entirely   reassured  about  him. 

Mrs.  Kant  was  a  large,  busy  woman,  like  a  horse — a 
horse   who   dislikes   other    horses  and   sniffs   an   enemy   in 


87«  FORTITUDE 

every  "wind.  She  very  decidedly  sniffed  an  enemy  now,  and 
Mr.  Zanti's  blue  suit  paled  before  her  fierce  eyes.  He 
stepped  back  into  the  doorway  again,  treading  upon 
Stephen.  Peter,  who  was  always  conscious  that  Mrs.  Kant 
looked  upon  himself  and  Clare  as  two  entirely  ridiculous 
and  slightly  impertinent  children,  stammered   a  little. 

"  You  might  go  down  and  have  your  tea  now,  Mrs. 
Kant.     I'll  keep  an  eye  upon  Stephen." 

"  I've  had  my  tea,  thank  you,  sir." 

"  Well,  I'll  relieve  you  of  the  baby  for  a  little."  She 
was  sewing.  She  snapped  off  a  piece  of  thread  with  a 
sharp  click  of  her  teeth,  sat  silently  for  a  moment  staring 
in  front  of  her,  then  quietly  got  up.  "  Thank  you,  sir," 
she  said  and  left  the  room. 

All  three  men  breathed  again  as  the  door  closed — then 
they  were  all  conscious  of  young  Stephen, 

"The  thing  was,  of  course,  absurd,  but  to  all  three  of  them 
there  came  the  conviction  that  the  baby  had  been  laughing 
at  them  for  their  terror  of  Mrs.  Kant.  He  was  curled  up 
on  a  chair  by  the  fire,  looking  at  them  with  his  wide  eyes 
over  his  shoulder,  and  he  seemed  to  say,  "  I  don't  care  a 
snap  for  the  woman — why  should  you  f  "  The  blue  ball 
was  on  the  floor  at  the  foot  of  the  chair,  and  the  firelight 
leapt  upon  the  frieze  that  Peter  had  so  carefully  chosen — 
giants  and  castles,  dwarfs  and  princesses  running  round 
the  room  in  red,  and  blue  and  gold. 

Young  Stephen  looked  at  them,  puzzled  for  an  instant, 
then  with  a  shout  he  would  have  acclaimed  his  father,  but 
his  gaze  was  suddenly  arrested  by  the  intense  blueness  of 
'Mr.  Zanti's  clothes.  He  stared  at  it,  fascinated.  Into  his 
life  there  had  suddenly  broken  the  revelation  that  you 
might  have  something  far  larger  than  the  blue  ball  that 
mo\'ed  and  shone  in  so  fascinating  a  manner.  His  eyes 
immediately  glittered  with  the  thought  that  he  would  pres- 
ently have  the  joy  of  rolling  something  so  big  and  shining 
along  the  floor.  He  could  not  bear  to  wait.  His  fat  fin- 
gers curved  in  the  air  with  the  eager  anticipation  of  it — 
words,  actual  words  had  not  as  yet  come  to  him,  but,  crow- 
ing and  gurgling,  he  informed  the  world  that  he  wanted, 
he  demanded,  instantly,  that  he  should  roll  Mr.  Zanti. 

"  Well,  old  man,  bow  are  you  ? "  said   Peter.     But  he 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  373 

would  not  look  at  his  father.  His  arms  stretched  toward 
Mr.   Zanti. 

"  You've  made  a  conquest  right  away,  Zanti/'  Peter  said 
laughing. 

It  was  indeed  instantly  to  be  perceived  that  Mr.  Zanti 
was  in  his  right  element.  Any  pretence  of  any  kind  of 
age  fell  away  from  him,  his  arms  curved  towards  young 
Stephen  as  young  Stephen's  curved  towards  him.  He  was 
making  noises  in  his  throat  that  exactly  resembled  the 
noises  that  the  baby  made. 

He  looked  down  gravely  upon  the  chair — "  *0w  do  you 
do?"  he  said  and  he  took  young  Stephen's  fat  fingers  in 
his   hand. 

"  'E  says,"  he  remarked,  looking  at  Peter  and  Stephen, 
"  that  'e  would  like  to  roll  me  upon  the  floor — like  that 
ball  there — " 

"  Well,  let  him,"  said  Peter  laughing. 

The  baby  then  dug  his  fingers  into  Mr.  Zanti's  hair  and 
pulled  down  his  head  towards  the  chair,  intense  satisfac- 
tion flooding  his  face  as  he  did  so. 

The  baby  seemed,  for  a  moment,  to  whisper  into  Mr. 
Zanti's  ear,  then,  chuckling  it  climbed  down  from  the  chair, 
and,  on  all  fours,  crawled,  its  eyes  and  mouth  suddenly 
serious  as  though  it  were  conscious  that  it  was  engaged 
upon  a  very  desperate  adventure.  The  three  men  watched 
it.  Across  the  absolute  silence  of  the  room  there  came  the 
sound  of  the  rain  driving  upon  the  pane,  of  the  tumbling 
chatter  of  the  fire,  of  the  baby's  hands  falling  upon  the 
carpet. 

Mr.  Zanti  was  suddenly  upon  his  knees.  "  Here,"  he 
cried,  seizing  the  blue  ball.  He  rolled  it  to  young  Stephen. 
It  was  caught,  dropped  and  then  the  fat  fingers  had  flung 
themselves  upon  Mr.  Zanti's  coat.  He  let  himself  go  and 
was  pulled  back  sprawling  upon  the  floor,  his  huge  body 
stretching  from  end  to  end  of  the  rug. 

Then,  almost  before  they  had  realised  it,  the  other  two 
men  were  down  upon  their  knees.  The  ball  was  picked  up 
and  tossed  from  hand  to  hand,  the  baby,  sitting  upon  Mr. 
Zanti's  stomach,  watched  with  delight  these  extraordinary 
events. 

Then  they  played  Hunt  the  Slipper;,  sitting  round  in  a 


874  FORTITUDE 

ring  npon  the  carpet,  young  Stephen  trring  to  catch  his 
own  slipper,  falling  over  upon  his  back,  kicking  his  lego 
in  the  air,  dashing  now  at  Stephen  the  Elder's  beard,  now 
at  his  father's  coat,  now  at  Mr.  Zanti's  legs. 

The  noise  of  the  laughter  drowned  the  rain  and  the  fire. 
Mr.  Zanti  had  the  slipper — he  was  sitting  upon  it.  Peter 
made  a  dash  for  it,  Mr.  Zanti  rolled  over,  they  were  all  in 
a  heap  upon  the  floor. 

"  I've  got  it."  Mr.  Zanti  was  off  on  all  fours  round  the 
room,  the  baby  on  his  back  clutching  on  to  his  hair.  A 
chair  was  over,  then  a  box  of  bricks,  the  table  rocked  and 
then  was  suddenly  down  with  a  crash! 

What  had  come  to  them  all?  Stephen,  so  grave,  so 
solemn,  had  caught  the  baby  into  the  air,  had  flung  him 
up  and  caught  him  again.  Peter  and  Mr.  Zanti  looking 
up  from  the  floor  saw  him  standing,  his  legs  wide,  his  beard 
flowing,  his  arms  stretched  with  yoimg  Stephen  shouting 
between  them. 

Behind  him,  around  him  was  a  wrecked  nursery.  .  .  . 

The  baby,  surveying  the  world  from  this  sudden  height, 
wondered  at  this  amazing  glory.  He  had  never  before 
beheld  from  such  a  position  the  things  that  bounded  his 
life.  How  strange  the  window  seemed !  Through  it  now 
he  could  see  the  tops  of  the  trees,  the  grey  sky,  the  driving 
lines  of  rain !  Only  a  little  way  above  him  now  were 
pictures  that  had  always  glowed  before  from  so  great  a 
distance.  Around  him,  above  him,  below  him  space — a 
thing  to  be  frightened  of  were  one  not  held  so  tightly,  so 
safely. 

He  approved,  most  assuredly,  of  the  banishment  of  Mrs. 
Kant,  and  the  invasion  of  these  splendid  Things !  He 
would  have  life  always  like  this,  with  that  great  blue  ball 
to  roll  upon  the  floor,  with  that  brown  beard,  near  now  to 
his  hand,  to  clutch,  with  none  of  that  hideous  soap-in-th©- 
cyes-early-to-bed  Philosophy  that  he  was  becoming  now 
conscious  enough  to  rebel  against. 

He  dug  his  hands  into  the  beard  that  was  close  to  him 
and,  like  the  sons  of  the  morning,  shouted  with  joy. 

Peter,  looking  up  at  the  two  Stephens,  felt  his  burdens 
roll  off  his  back.  If  only  things  could  be  like  this  always! 
And   already  he  saw  himself,  through  these  two,  making 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  875 

everything  right  once  more  with  Clare.  They  should 
prove  to  her  that,  after  all,  his  past  life  had  not  been  so 
terrible,  that  Cornwall  could  produce  heroes  if  it  liked. 
Through  these  two  he  would  get  fresh  inspiration  for  his 
work.  He  felt  already,  through  them,  a  wind  blowing  that 
cleared  all  the  dust  from  his  brain. 

And  how  splendid  for  the  boy!  To  have  two  such  men 
for  his  friends !  Already  he  was  planning  to  persuade 
them  to  stay  in  London.  He  had  thought  of  the  very  place 
for  them  in  Chelsea,  near  the  Roundabout,  the  very 
house.  .  .  . 

"Of  course  you'll  stay  for  dinner,  you  two — " 

"  But — "  said  Mr.  Zanti,  mopping  his  brow  from  which 
perspiration   was    dripping. 

"  No,  nonsense.  Of  course  you'll  stop.  We've  got  such 
heaps  to  talk  about — " 

Stephen  had  got  the  baby  now  on  his  shoulder.  "  Off 
to  Cornwall,"  he  shouted  and  charged  down  the  room. 

It  was  at  that  instant  that  Peter  was  conscious  that  Clare 
had  been  standing,  for  some  moments,  in  the  room.  She 
stood,  quite  silently,  without  moving,  by  the  door,  her  eyes 
blazing   at   him.  .  .  . 

His  first  thought  was  of  that  other  time  when  she  had 
found  him  in  the  nursery,  of  the  quarrel  that  they  had  had. 
Then  he  noticed  the  state  of  the  room,  the  overturned  chairs 
and  table.  Then  he  saw  Mr.  Zanti  still  wiping  his  fore- 
head, but  confusedly,  and  staring  at  Clare  in  a  shocked 
hushed  way,  as  though  he  were  a  small  boy  who  had  been 
detected  with  his  fingers  in  a  jam-pot. 

Stephen  saw  her  at  last.  He  put  the  baby  down  and 
came  slowly  across  the  floor.  Peter  spoke :  "  Why,  Clare ! 
You're  back  early.  We've  been  having  such  a  splendid 
time  with  Stephen — let  me  introduce  my  friends  to  you — 
Mr.  Zanti  and  Mr.  Brant  .  .  .  you've  heard  me  speak  of 
them — " 

They  came  towards  her.  She  shook  hands  with  them, 
regarding  them  gravely. 

"  How  do  you  do?  " 

There  was  silence.  Then  Mr.  Zanti  said — "We  must  be 
goin' — longer  than  we  ought  to  stop — we  'ave  busi- 
ness— " 


876  FORTITUDE 

Peter  felt  rising  in  him  a  cold  and  surging  anger  at  Ker 
treatment  of  them.  These  two,  the  best  friends  that  he 
had  in  the  world — that  she  should  dare ! 

"  Oh !  you'll  stay  to  dinner,  you  two !     You  must — " 

"  I'm  afraid,  ver'  afraid,"  Mr.  Zantl  said  bowing  very 
low  and  still  looking  at  Clare  with  apologetic,  troubled 
eyes,  "  we  'ave  no  time.     Immediate  business." 

Still  Clare  said  nothing. 

There  was  another  moment's  silence,  and  then  Peter 
said: 

"  I'll  come  down  and  see  you  off."  Still  without  mov- 
ing from  her  place  she  shook  hands  with  them. 

"  Good-bye." 

They  all  three  went  out. 

Peter  could  say  nothing.  The  words  seemed  to  be 
choked  in  his  throat  by  this  tide  of  anger  that  was  like 
nothing  he  had  ever  felt  before. 

He  held  their  hands  for  a  moment  as  they  stood  outside 
in  the  dusk. 

"  Where  are  you  staying?     I  must  see  you  again — " 

"  We  go  down  to  Cornwall  to-morrow." 

Stephen  caught   Peter's   shoulder: 

"  Come  down  to  us,  Peter,  if  you  get  a  chance." 

They  all  stared  at  one  another;  they  were  all,  absolutely, 
entirely  without  words.  Afterwards  they  would  regret  that 
they  had  said  nothing,  but  now — ! 

"They  vanished  into  the  dusk  and  Peter,  stepping  into 
the  house  again,  closed  very  softly  the  hall  door  behind 
him. 


CHAPTER  X 
ROCKING  THE  ROUNDABOUT 


AS  he  climbed,  once  more,  the  stairs  to  the  nursery,  he 
was  conscious  of  the  necessity  for  a  great  restraint. 
Did  he  but  relax  for  an  instant  his  control  he  was  aware 
that  forces — often  dimly  perceived  and  shuddered  at — • 
would  now,  as  never  in  his  life  before,  burst  into  freedom. 

It  was  as  though  a  whole  life  of  joy  and  happiness  had 
been  suddenly  snatched  from  him  and  it  was  Clare  who 
had  robbed  him — Clare  who  had  never  cared  what  the 
things  might  be  that  she  demanded  from  him — Clare  who 
gave   him  nothing. 

But  his  rage  now,  he  also  felt,  was  beyond  all  reason, 
something  that  belonged  to  that  other  part  of  him,  the  part 
that  Scaw  House  and  its  dark  room  understood  and  so 
terribly    fostered. 

He  was  afraid  of  what  he  might  do. 

11 

On  opening  the  nursery  door  he  saw  the  straight,  thin, 
shining  back  of  Mrs.  Kant  as  she  bent  to  put  things 
straight.  Young  Stephen  was  quietly  asleep.  He  closed 
the  door,  and,  turning  in  the  narrow  passage,  found  Clare 
coming  out  of  her  room.  In  the  dim  light  they  faced  one 
another,  hostility  flaming  between  them.  She  looked  at 
him  for  a  moment,  her  breast  heaving,  her  mouth  so  tight 
and  sharp,  her  eyes  so  fierce  that  her  little  stature  seemed 
to  be  raised  by  her  anger  to  a  great  height. 

At  that  moment  Peter  felt  that  he  hated  her  as  he  had 
never  hated  any  one  in  his  life  before. 

She  went  back,  without  a  word,  into  her  room. 

She  did  not  come  down  again  that  night  and  he  had  his 
evening  meal,  miserably,  alone. 

He  slept  in  his  dressing-room.     Long  before  morning  his 

377 


878  FORTITUDE 

rage  had  gone.     He  looked  at  her  locked  door  and  wished, 
miserably,  that  he  might  die  for  her.  .  .  . 


Later,  as  he  sat,  hopelessly,  over  the  dim  and  sterile 
pages  of  "  Mortimer  Stant,"  Mrs.  Rossiter  came,  heavily,  in 
to  talk  with  him.  Mrs.  Rossiter  always  entered  the  room 
with  an  expression  of  stupid  benignity  that  hid  a  good  deal 
of  rather  sharp  perception.  The  fact  that  she  was  not 
nearly  so  stupid  as  she  looked  enabled  her  to  look  all  the 
stupider  and  she  covered  a  multitude  of  brains  with  a 
quantity  of  hard  black  silk  that  she  spread  out  around  her 
with  the  air  of  one  who  is  filling  as  much  of  the  room  as 
she  can  conveniently  seize  upon.  Her  plump  arms,  her 
broad  and  placid  bosom,  her  flat  smooth  face,  her  hair, 
entirely  negative  in  colour  and  arrangement,  offered  no 
clue  whatever  to  her  unsuspected  sharpnesses.  Smooth, 
broad,  flat  and  motionless  she  carried,  like  the  Wooden 
Horse  of  Troy,  a  thousand  dangers  in  the  depths  of  her 
placidity. 

She  had  come  now  to  assist  her  daughter,  the  only  person 
for  whom  she  may  be  said  to  have  had  tlie  slightest  genuine 
aff'ection,  for  Dr.  Rossiter  she  had  long  despised  and  Mrs. 
Galleon  was  an  ally  and  companion  but  never  a  friend. 
She  had  allowed  Clare  to  marry  Peter,  chiefly  because 
Clare  would  have  married  him  in  any  case,  but  also,  a 
little,  because  she  thought  that  Peter  had  a  great  career  in 
front  of  him.  Now  that  Peter's  career  seemed  already 
to  be,  for  the  most  part,  behind  him,  she  disliked  him  and 
because  he  appeared  to  have  made  Clare  unhappy  suddenly 
hated  him  .  .  .  but  placidity  was  the  shield  that  coAxred 
her  attack  and,  for  a  symbol,  one  might  take  the  large  flat 
golden  brooch  that  she  wore  on  her  bosom — flat,  expres- 
sionless and  shining,  with  the  sharpest  pin  behind  it  that 
ever  brooch  possessed. 

Peter,  M-hose  miseries  had  accumulated  as  the  minutes 
passed,  was  ready  to  seize  upon  anything  that  promised  a 
reconciliation.  He  did  not  like  Mrs.  Rossiter — he  had  never 
been  able  to  get  to  close  quarters  with  her,  and  he  was  con- 
scious that  his  roughness  and  occasional  outbursts  dis- 
pleased her.     He  felt,  too,  that  the  qualities  that  he  had 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  379 

resented  in  Clare  owed  their  origin  to  her  mother.  That 
brooch  of  hers  was  responsible  for  a  great  deal. 

Fixing  his  eyes  upon  it  he  said,  "  You've  come  about 
Clare?" 

"  Yes,  Peter."  Mrs.  Rossiter  settled  herself  more  com- 
fortably, spread  her  skirts,  folded  her  hands.  "  She's  very 
unhappy." 

The  mild  eyes  baffled  him. 

"  I'm  terribly  sorry.  I  will  do  anything  I  can,  but  I 
think — that  I  had  a  right " — he  faltered  a  little ;  it  was  so 
like  talking  to  an  empty  Dairy — "  had  a  right  to  mind. 
Two  old  friends  of  mine — two  of  the  best  friends  that  I 
have  in  the  world  were  here  yesterday  and  Clare — " 

"  I  don't  think,"  the  soft  voice  broke  in  upon  him  whilst 
the  eyes  searched  his  body  up  and  down,  "  that,  even  now, 
Peter,  you  quite  understand  Clare — " 

"  No,"  he  said  eagerly,  "  I  know,  I'm  blundering,  stu- 
pid. Lots  of  times  I've  irritated  her,  and  now  again." 
He  paused,  but  then  added,  with  a  touch  of  his  old  stub- 
bornness— "  But  they  were  friends  of  mine — she  should 
have  treated  them  so." 

Mrs.  Rossiter  felt  that  she  did  indeed  hate  the  young 
man. 

"  Clare  is  very  unhappy,"  she  repeated.  "  She  tells  me 
that  she  has  been  crying  all  night.  You  must  remember, 
Peter,  that  her  life  has  been  very  different  to  yours — " 

He  wished  that  she  would  not  repeat  herself;  he  wished 
that  she  would  not  always  use  the  same  level  voice;  he 
wanted  insanely  to  tell  her  that  she  ought  to  say  "  different 
from  " — he  could  not  take  his  eyes  from  the  brooch.  But 
the  thought  of  Clare  came  to  him  and  he  bowed  himself 
once  more  humbly. 

"  I  will  see  that  things  are  better,"  he  said  earnestly. 
"  I  don't  know  what  has  been  the  matter  lately — my  work 
and  everything  has  been  wrong,  and  I  expect  my  temper 
has  been  horrible.  You  know,"  he  said  with  a  little  crooked 
smile,  "  that  I've  got  to  work  to  keep  it  all  going,  and 
when   I'm  writing  badly  then  my  temper  goes   to   pieces." 

Mrs.  Rossiter,  with  no  appearance  of  having  heard  any- 
thing that  he  had  said,  continued — 

"  You  know,  Peter,  that  your  temperament  is  very  differ- 


880  FORTITUDE 

ent  to  Clare's.  You  are,  and  I  know  you  will  forgive  my 
putting  it  so  plainly,  a  little  wild  still— doubtless  owing  to 
your  earlier  years.  Clare  is  gentle,  bright,  happy.  She 
has  never  given  my  husband  or  myself  a  moment's  trouble, 
but  that  is  because  we  understood  her  nature.  We  knew 
that  she  loved  people  about  her  to  be  happy — she  flourished 
in  the  sun,  she  drooped  under  the  clouds  .  .  .  under  the 
clouds  "  Mrs.  Rossiter  repeated  again  softly,  as  she  searched, 
with  care,  for  her  next  words. 

Irritation  was  rising  within  Peter.  Why  should  it  be 
concluded  so  inevitably  that  the  fault  was  all  on  Peter's 
side  and  not  at  all  on  Clare's — after  all,  there  were  reasons 
.  .  .  but  he  pulled  himself  up.  He  had  behaved  like  a 
beast. 

"  I've  tried  very  hard — "  he  began. 

"  Clouds — "  said  Mrs.  Rossiter.  "  And  you,  Peter, 
are  at  times — I  have  seen  it  myself  and  I  know  that  it  is 
apparent  to  others — inclined  to  be  morose — gloomy,  a 
little  gloomy — "  Her  fingers  tapped  the  silk  of  her 
dress.  "  Dear  Clare,  considering  what  her  own  life  has 
been,  shrinks,  I  must  confess  it  seems  to  me  quite  naturally, 
from  any  reminder  of  what  your  own  earlier  circumstances 
have  been.  Look  at  it,  Peter,  for  an  instant  from  the  out- 
side and  you  wiU  see,  at  once,  I  am  sure,  what  it  must  have 
been  to  her,  yesterday,  to  come  into  her  nursery,  to  find 
tables,  chairs  overturned,  strange  men  shouting  and  fling- 
ing poor  little  Stephen  towards  the  ceiling — some  talk 
about  Cornwall — really,  Peter,  I  think  you  can  under- 
stand .  .  ." 

He  abandoned  all  his  defences.  "  I  know — I  ought  to 
have  realised  ...  it  was  quite  natural  .  .  ." 

In  the  back  of  his  head  he  heard  her  words  "  You're 
morose — you're  wild.  Other  people  find  you  so — you're 
making  a  mess  of  everything  and  every  one  knows  it — " 

He  was  humbled  to  the  dust.  If  only  he  might  make  it 
all  right  with  Clare,  then  he  would  see  to  it — Oh !  yes  he 
would  see  to  it — that  nothing  of  this  kind  ever  happened 
again.  From  Mrs.  Rossiter's  standpoint  he  looked  back 
upon  his  life  and  found  it  all  one  ignoble,  selfish  muddle. 
Dear  Clare! — so  eager  to  be  happy  and  he  had  made  her 
miserable. 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  881 

*'  Will  she  forgive  me  ?  " 

"  Dear  Clare/'  said  Mrs.  Rossiter,  rising  brightly  and 
with  a  general  air  of  benevolence  towards  all  the  sinners  in 
existence,  "  is  the  most  forgiving  creature  in  the  world." 

He  went  down  to  her  bedroom  and  found  her  lying  on  a 
sofa  and  reading  a  novel. 

He  fell  on  his  knees  at  her  side — "  Clare — darling — I'm 
a  beast,  a  brute — " 

She  suddenly  turned  her  face  into  the  cushions  and 
burst  into  passionate  crying.  "  Oh !  it's  horrible — horrible 
— horrible — •" 

He  kissed  her  hand  and  then  getting  on  to  his  feet  again, 
stood  looking  at  her  awkwardly,  struggling  for  words  with 
which  to  comfort  her. 

TV 

And  then  at  luncheon,  there  was  a  little,  pencilled  feeble 
note  for  Peter  from  Norah  Monogue.  "  Please,  if  you  can 
spare  half  an  hour  come  to  me.  In  a  day  or  two  I  am  off 
to  the  country." 

Things  had  just  been  restored  to  peace  and  happiness — 
Clare  had  just  proposed  that  they  should  go,  that  after- 
noon, to  a  Private  View  together — they  might  go  and  have 
tea  with — 

For  an  instant  he  was  tempted  to  abandon  Norah.  Then 
his  courage  came: — 

"  Here's  a  note  from  Miss  Monogue,"  he  said.  "  She's 
awfully  ill  I  think,  I  ought — " 

Clare's  face  hardened  again.  She  got  up  from  the  ta- 
ble— 

"  Just  as  you  please — "  she  said. 

He  climbed  on  to  the  omnibus  that  was  to  stumble  with 
him  down  Piccadilly  with  a  hideous,  numbing  sense  of  being 
under  the  hand  of  Fate.  Why,  at  this  moment,  in  all  time, 
should  this  letter  of  Norah  Monogue's  have  made  its  un- 
happy appearance?  With  what  difficulty  and  sorrow  had 
he  and  Clare  reached  once  more  a  reconciliation  only,  so 
wantonly,  to  be  plucked  away  from  it  again !  From  the 
top  of  his  omnibus  he  looked  down  upon  a  sinister  London. 
It  was  a  heavy,  lowering  day;  thick  clouds  like  damp  cloths 
came  down  upon  the  towers  and  chimneys.     The  trees  in, 


382  FORTITUDE 

the  Green  Park  were  black  and  chill  and  in  and  out  of 
the  Clubs  figures  slipped  cautiously  and  it  seemed  furtively. 
Just  beyond  the  Green  Park  they  were  building  a  vast 
hotel,  climbing  figures  and  twisting  lines  of  scaffolding 
pierced  the  air,  and  behind  the  rolling  and  rattling  of  the 
traffic  the  sound  of  many  hammers  beat  rhythmically,  mo- 
notonously. .  .  . 

To  Peter  upon  his  omnibus,  suddenly  that  sound  that  he 
had  heard  before — that  sound  of  London  stirring — came 
back  to  him,  and  now  more  clearly  than  he  had  ever  known 
it.  Tap-tap-tap-tap  .  .  .  Clamp-clamp-tap-tap-tap-tap) — 
whir!  whir!  .  .  .  Clamp-clamp.  .  .  . 

It  seemed  to  him  that  all  the  cabs  and  the  buses  and  the 
little  black  figures  were  being  hurried  by  some  power 
straight,  fast,  along  Piccadilly  to  be  pitched,  at  the  end 
of  it,  pell-mell,  helter-skelter  into  some  dark  abysmal  pit, 
there  to  perish  miserably. 

Yes,  the  beast  was  stirring!  Ever  so  little  the  pave- 
ments, the  houses  were  heaving.  Perhaps  if  one  could 
see  already  the  soil  was  cracking  beneath  one's  feet. 
"  Look  out !  London  will  have  you  in  a  minute."  Tap-tap- 
tap-tap — clamp-clamp — tap-tap-tap-tap — whir-whir — clamp- 
clamp.  .  .  . 

Anyhow  it  was  a  heavy,  clammy  day.  The  houses  were 
ghosts  and  the  people  were  ghosts,  and  grey  shadows,  soon 
perhaps  to  be  a  yellow  fog,  floated  about  the  windows  and 
the  doors  and  muffled  all  human  sounds. 

He  passed  the  great  pile  of  scaffolding,  saw  iron  girders 
shining,  saw  huge  cranes  swinging  in  mid-air,  saw  tiny, 
tiny  black  atoms  perched  above  the  noise  and  swallowed  by 
the   smoke  .  .  .  tap-tap — clamp-clamp.  .  .  . 

Yes,  the  beast  was  moving  .  .  .  and,  out  and  in,  lost  and 
then  found  again,  crept  that  twisting  chain  of  beggars  to 
whose  pallid  army  Peter  himself  had  once  so  nearly  be- 
longed. 

"  I  suppose  I've  got  a  headache  after  all  that  row  with 
Clare,"  Peter  thought  as  he  climbed  off  the  omnibus. 


He  realised,  as  he  came  into  the  Bloomsbury  square,  and 
saw  Mrs.  Brockctt  gloomily  waiting  for  him,  tliat  the  ad- 


THE  ROUNDABOtJT  883 

ventures  of  his  life  were  most  strangely  bound  together. 
Not  for  an  instant  did  he  seem  to  be  able  to  escape  from 
any  one  of  them.  Now  it  would  be  Cornwall,  now  the 
Bookshop,  now  Stephen,  now  Mr.  Zanti,  now  Bucket  Lane, 
now  Treliss — all  of  them  interweaving,  arresting  his  action 
at  every  moment.  Because  he  had  done  that  once  now  this 
must  not  be  permitted  him;  he  felt,  as  he  rang  the  old 
heavy  bell  of  Brockett's  that  his  head  would  never  think 
clearly  again.  As  the  door  opened  and  he  stepped  into  the 
hall  he  heard,  faintly,  across  the  flat  spaces  of  the  Square 
"  Tap-tap-tap-tap — clamp-clamp.  .  .  ." 

Even  Mrs.  Brockett,  who  might  be  considered  if  any  one 
in  the  world,  immune  from  morbid  imaginations,  felt  the 
heaviness  of  the  day,  suggested  a  prevalence  of  thunder, 
and  shook  her  head  when  Peter  asked  about  Miss  Monogue. 

"  She's  bad,  Mr.  Peter,  very  bad,  poor  dear.  There's 
no  doubt  about  that.  It's  hard  to  see  what  can  be  done 
for  her — but   plucky !     That's   a  small  word   for  it !  " 

"  I'm  sure  she  is,"  said  Peter,  feeling  ashamed  of  having 
made  so  much  of  his  own  little  troubles. 

"  She  must  get  out  of  London  if  she's  to  improve  at  all. 
In  a  week  or  two  I  hope  she'll  be  able  to  move." 

"How's  every  one  else.''" 

"  Oh,  well  enough."  Mrs.  Brockett  straightened  her 
dress  with  her  beautiful  hands  in  the  old  familiar  way — 
**  But  you're  not  looking  very  hearty  yourself,  Mr.  Peter." 

"Oh!  I'm  all  right,"  he  answered  smiling;  but  she 
shook  her  head  after  him  as  she  watched  him  go  up  the 
stairs. 

And  then  he  was  surprised.  He  came  into  Norah 
Monogue's  room  and  found  her  sitting  up  by  her  window, 
looking  better  than  he  had  ever  seen  her.  Her  face  was 
full  of  colour  and  her  eyes  bright  and  smiling.  Only  on 
her  hands  the  blue  veins  stood  out,  and  their  touch,  when  she 
shook  hands  with  him,  was  hot  and   burning. 

But  he  was  reassured;  Mrs.  Brockett  had  exaggerated 
and  made  the  worst  of  it  all. 

"  You're  looking  splendid — I'm  so  glad.  I  was  afraid 
from  your  letter — " 

"  Oh !  I  really  am  getting  on,"  she  broke  in  gaily,  "  and 
it's  the  nicest  boy  in  the  world  that  you  are  to  come  in  and 


384  FORTITUDE 

see  me  so  quickly.  Only  on  a  day  like  this  London  does 
just  lie  heavily  upon  one  doesn't  it?  and  one  just  longs 
for  the  country — " 

A  little  breath  of  a  sigh  escaped  from  her  and  she  looked 
through  her  window  at  the  dim  chimneys,  the  clouds  hang- 
ing like  consolidated  smoke,  the  fine,  thin  dust  that  filtered 
the  air. 

"  You're  looking  tired  yourself,  Peter.  Working  too 
hard.?" 

"  No,"  he  shook  his  head.     "  The  work  hasn't  been  com- 
ing easily  at  all.     I  suppose  I've  been  too  conscious,  lately, 
jof  the  criticisms  every  one  made  about  '  The  Stone  House/ 
^\  don't  believe  one  ought  really  to  listen  to  anybody  and^ 
I     yet  it's  so  hard  not  to,  and  so  difficult  to  know  whose  opin-  I 
I     ion  one  ought  to  take  if  one's  going  to  take  anybody's.     I 
^  wish/'  he  suddenly  brought  out,  "  Henry  Galleon  were  still 
alive.     I  could  have  followed  him." 

"  But  why  follow  anybody?  " 

"Ah!  that's  just  it.  I'm  beginning  to  doubt  myself  and 
that's  why  it's  getting  so  difficult." 

Her  eyes  searched  his  face  and  she  saw,  at  once,  that  he 
was  in  very  real  trouble.  He  looked  younger,  just  then,  she 
thought,  than  she  had  ever  seen  him,  and  she  felt  herself 
so  immensely  old  that  she  could  have  taken  him  into  her 
arms  and  mothered  him  as  though  he'd  been  her  own  son. 

"  There  are  a  lot  of  things  the  matter,"  she  said.  "  Tell 
me  what  they  all  are." 

"  Well,"  he  said  slowly,  "  I  suppose  it's  all  been  mostly 
my  own  fault — but  the  real  difficulty  is  that  I  don't  seem 
to  be  able  to  run  the  business  of  being  married  and  the 
business  of  writing  together.  I  don't  think  Clare  in  the 
least  cares  now  about  my  writing — she  almost  resents  it; 
she  cared  at  first  when  she  thought  that  I  was  going  to 
make  a  huge  success  of  it,  but  now — " 

"  But,  of  course,"  said  Miss  Monogue,  "  that  success 
comes  slowly — it  must  if  it's  going  to  be  any  use  at  all — " 

"  Well,  she  doesn't  see  that.  And  she  wants  me  to  go 
out  to  parties  and  play  about  all  the  time — and  then  she 
doesn't  want  me  to  be  any  oi  the  things  that  I  was  before 
I  met  her.  All  my  earlier  life  frightens  her — I  suppose," 
he  suddenly  ended,  "  I  want  hrr  to  be  different  and  she 


( 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  385 

wants  ^e  to  be  different  and  we  can't  make  a  compromise." 

Then  Miss  Monogue  said:  "Have  any  outside  people  in- 
terfered at  all  ?  " 

Peter  coloured.  "  Well,  of  course,  Mrs.  Rossiter  stands 
up  for  Clare.  She  came  and  talked  to  me  this  morning 
and  I  think  the  things  that  she  said  were  quite  true.  I 
suppose  I  am  morose  and  morbid  sometimes — more  than  I 
realise — and  then,"  he  added  slowly,  "  there's  Cards — " 

"Cards.?" 

"  Cardillac — a  man  I  was  at  school  with.  I'm  very  fond 
of  him.  He's  the  best  friend  I've  got,  and  he's  been  all 
over  the  place  and  done  everything  and,  of  course,  knows 
ever  so  much  more  about  the  world  than  I  do.  The  fact 
is  he  thinks  really  that  my  novels  are  dreadful  nonsense, 
only  he's  much  too  kind  to  say  so — and,  of  course,  Clare 
looks  up  to  him  a  lot.  Although  he's  only  my  own  age  he 
seems  so  much  older  than  both  Clare  and  myself.  I  don't 
believe  she'd  have  lost  interest  in  my  work  so  quickly  if 
he  hadn't  influenced  her — and  he's  influenced  me  too — " 
Peter  added  sighing. 

"  Well — and  is  there  anything  else  ?  " 

"  Yes.  There's  Stephen.  I  can't  begin  to  tell  you  how 
I  love  that  kid.  There  haven't  been  many  people  in  my 
life  that  I've  cared  about  and  I've  never  realised  anything 
so  intensely  before.  Besides,"  he  went  on  laughing  proudly, 
"  he's  such  a  splendid  kid !  I  wish  you  could  see  him, 
Norah.     He'll  do  something  one  day — " 

"  Well,  what's  the  trouble  about  Stephen  ?  " 

"  Clare's  so  odd  about  him.  There  are  times  when  I 
don't  believe  she  cares  for  him  the  least  little  bit.  Then 
there  are  other  times  when  she  resents  fiercely  my  inter- 
fering about  him.  Sometimes  she  seems  to  love  him  more 
than  anything  in  the  world,  but  it's  always  in  an  odd  de- 
fiant way — just  as  though  she  were  afraid  that  something 
would  hurt  her  if  she  showed  that  she  cared  too  much." 

There  was  silence  between  them  for  a  minute  and  then 
Peter  summed  it  all  up  with: — "  The  fact  is,  Norah,  that 
every  sort  of  thing's  getting  in  between  me  and  my  work 
and  worries  me.  It's  as  though  I  were  tossing  more  balls 
in  the  air  than  I  could  possibly  manage.  At  one  moment 
I  think  it's  Clare  that  I've  got  especially  to  hang  on  to^ 


886  FORTITUDE 

another   time   it's  the  book — and   then   it's   Stephen.     The 
moment  I've  settled  down  something  turns  up  to  remind  me 
of  Cornwall  or  the  Bookshop.     Fact  is  I'm  getting  battereu 
at  by  something  or  other  and  I  never  can  get  my  breath.  / 
I  oughtn't  ever  to  have  married — I'm  not  up  to  it." 

Norah  Monogue  took  his  hand. 

"  You  are  up  to  it,  Peter,  but  I  expect  you've  got  a  lot 
to  go  through  before  you're  clear  of  things.     Now  I'm  going 
to    be    brutal.     The    fact    is    that   you're    too    self-centredT^ 
r^People  never  do  anything  in  the  world  so  long  as  they  are   I 
Y  wondering  whether  the   world's   going  to  hurt  them  or  no.  J 
^Those  early  years  of  yours  made  you  morbid.     You've  gof^ 
a  temper  and  one  or  two  other  things  that  want  a  lot  of 
holding  down  and  that  takes  up  your  .attention — And  then 
Clare  isn't  the  woman  to  help  you — " 

Peter  was  about  to  break  in  but  she  went  on: — "Oh!  I 
know  my  Clare  through  and  through.  She's  just  as  anx-  | 
ious  as  you  are  not  to  be  hurt  by  anything  and  so  she's 
being  hurt  all  the  time.  She's  out  for  happiness  at  any 
cost  and  you're  out  for  freedom — freedom  from  every  kind 
of  thing — and  because  both  of  you  are  denied  it  you  are 
resti\-e.  But  you  and  Clare  are  both  people  whose  only 
salvation  is  in  being  hurt  and  knocked  about  and  bruised 
to  such  an  extent  that  they  simply  don't  know  where  they 
are.  Oh !  I  know — I'm  exactly  the  same  sort  of  person 
myself.  We  can  thank  the  Gods  if  we  are  knocked 
about — " 

Suddenly  she  paused  and,  falling  back  in  her  chair,  put 
her  hand  to  her  breast,  coughing.  Something  seized  her, 
held  her  in  its  grip,  tossed  her  from  side  to  side,  at  last  left 
her  white,  speechless,  utterly  exhausted.  It  had  come  so 
suddenly  that  it  had  taken  Peter  entirely  by  surprise.  She 
lay  back  now,  her  eyes  closed,  her  face  a  grey  white. 

He  ran  to  the  door  and  called  Mrs.  Brockett.  She  came 
and  with  an  exclamation  hurried  away  for  remedies. 

Peter  suddenly  felt  his  hand  seized — a  hoarse  whisper 
was  in  his  ear — "  Peter — dear — go — at — once — I  can't  bear 
— you — to  see  me — like  this.     Come  back — another  day." 

He  knelt,  moved  by  an  affection  and  tenderness  that 
seemed  stronger  than  any  emotion  he  had  ever  known,  and 
kissed  her.     She  whispered: 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  887 

"  Dear  boy—" 

On  his  way  back  to  Chelsea,  the  orange  lamps,  the  white 
streets  powdered  with  the  evening  glow,  the  rustling  plane 
trees  whispered  to  him,  "  You've  got  to  be  knocked  about 
— you've  got  to  be  knocked  about — you've  got  to  be  knocked 
about — "  but  the  murmur  was  no  longer  sinister. 

Still  thinking  of  Norah,  he  went  up  to  the  nursery  to  see 
the  boy  in  bed.  He  remembered  that  Clare  was  going  out 
alone  to  a  party  and  that  he  would  have  the  evening  to  him- 
self. 

On  entering  the  room,  dark  except  for  a  nightlight  by 
the  boy's  bed,  some  unknown  fear  assailed  him.  He  was 
instantly,  at  the  threshold,  conscious  of  it.  He  stood  for 
a  moment  in  silence.  Then  realised  what  it  was.  The  boy 
was  moaning  in  his  sleep. 

He  went  quickly  over  to  the  cot  and  bent  down. 
Stephen's  cheeks  were  flaming,  his  hands  very  hot. 

Peter  rang  the  bell.     Mrs.   Kant  appeared. 

"  Is  there  anything  the  matter  with  Stephen  ?  " 

Mrs.  Kant  looked  at  him,  surprised,  a  little  offended. 

"  He's  had  a  little  cold  all  day,  sir.  I've  kept  him  in- 
doors." 

"  Have  you  taken  his  temperature  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  nothing  at  all  unusual.  He  often  goes  up 
and  down." 

"  Have  you  spoken  to  your  mistress?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.  She  agrees  with  me  that  there  is  nothing  un- 
usual— " 

He  brushed  past  the  woman  and  went  to  his  wife's  bed- 
room. 

She  was  dressed  and  was  putting  on  a  string  of  pearls,  a 
wedding  present  from  her  father.  She  smiled  up  at 
him — ■ 

"Clare,  do  you  know  Stephen's  ill?" 

"  No,  it's  only  a  cold.     I've  been  up  to  see  him — " 

He  took  her  hand — she  smiled  up  at  him — "  Did  you 
enjoy  your  visit?  "     She  fastened  the  necklace. 

"  Clare,  stay  in  to-night.  It  may  be  nothing  but  if  the 
boy  got  worse — " 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  stay  ?  " 

"  Yes." 


888  FORTITUDE 

"  I  wanted  you  to  go  with  me  this  afternoon — " 

"  That  was  different.     The  boy  may  be  really  ill — " 

"  You   didn't   do   what    I    wanted   this   afternoon.     Why 

should  I  do  what  you  want  now .''  " 
"  Clare,  stay.  Please,  please — " 
She  took  her  hand  gently  out  of  his,  and,  as  she  went  out 

of  the  door  switched  off  the  electric  light. 

He  heard   the   opening  of  the   hall   door   and,   standing 

•where  she  had  left  him  in  the  dark  bedroom,  saw,  shining, 

laughing  at  him,  her  eyes. 


CHAPTER  XI 
WHY? 


r|  iHERE  are  occasions  in  our  life  when  the  great  Wave 
M.     so  abruptly  overwhelms  us  that  before  we  have  recov- 
ered our  dazed  senses  it  has  passed  and  the  water  on  every 
side  of  us  is  calm  again. 

There  are  other  occasions  when  we  stand^  it  may  seem 
through  a  lifetime  of  anticipation  bracing  our  backs  for ' 
the  inevitable  moment.  Every  hour  before  it  comes  is 
darkened,  every  light  is  dimmed  by  its  implacable  shadow. 
Then  when  at  last  it  is  upon  us  we  meet  it  with  an  indif- 
ference, almost  with  a  relief,  because  it  has  come  at  last. 

So  was  it  now  with  Peter.  During  many  weeks  he  had 
been  miserable,  apprehensive,  seeing  an  enemy  in  every 
wind.     Now,  behold,  his  adversary  in  the  open. 

"  This,"  he  might  cry  to  that  old  man,  down  in  Scaw 
House,  "  this  is  what  you  have  been  preparing  for  me,  is 
it?     At  last  you've  shown  me — well,  I'll  fight  you." 

Young  Stephen  was  very  ill.  Peter  was  strangely  as- 
sured that  it  was  to  be  a  bad  business.  Well,  it  rested  with 
him,  Peter,  to  pull  the  boy  through.  If  he  chose  to  put 
his  back  into  it  and  give  the  kid  some  of  his  own  vigour  and 
strength  then  it  was  bound  to  be  all  right. 

Standing  there  in  the  dark,  he  stripped  his  mind  naked; 
he  flung  from  it  every  other  thought,  every  other  interest 
— his  work,  Clare,  everything  must  go.  Only  Stephen  mat- 
tered and  Stephen  should  be  pulled  through. 

For  an  instant,  a  little  cold  trembling  fear  struck  his 
heart.  Supposing.  .  .  ,?  Then  fiercely,  flinging  the 
thought  from  him  he  trampled  it  down. 

He  went  to  the  telephone  and  called  up  a  doctor  who 
lived  in  Cheyne  Walk.  The  man  could  be  with  him  in  a 
quarter  of  an  hour. 

Then  he  went  back  into  the  nursery.  Mrs.  Kant  was 
there. 

389 


S90  FORTITUDE 

"I've   sent   for   Dr.    Mitchell." 

"  Very  well,  sir." 

"  He'll  be  here  in  quarter  of  an  hour." 

"  Very  well,  sir." 

He  hated  the  woman.  He  would  like  to  take  her  thin, 
bony  neck  and  wring  it. 

He  went  over  to  the  cot  and  looked  down.  The  little 
body  outlined  under  the  clothes  was  so  helpless,  the  little 
hands,  clenched  now,  were  so  tiny ;  he  was  breathing  very 
fast  and  little  sounds  came  from  between  his  teeth,  little 
struggling  cries. 

Peter  saw  that  moment  when  Stephen  the  Elder  had 
held   Stephen   the  younger   aloft  in   his   arms.     The  Gods    j 

C appear  to  us  only  when  we  claim  to  challenge  their  exulta-  V 
tion.     They    had    been    challenged    at    that    moment.   .  .  . 
Young  Stephen  against  the  Gods!     Surely  an  unequal  con- 
test ! 

II 

Dr.  Mitchell  came  and  instantly  the  struggle  was  at  its 
height.  Appendicitis.  As  they  stood  over  the  cot  the  boy 
awoke  and  began  to  cry  a  little,  turned  his  head  from  side 
to  side  as  though  to  avoid  the  light,  beating  with  his  hands 
on  the  counterpane. 

"  I  must  send  for  a  nurse  at  once,"  Dr.  Mitchell  said. 

"  Everything  is  in  your  hands,"  Peter  answered. 

"  You'd  better  go  down  and  have  something  to  iat." 

The  little  cry  came  trembling  and  pitiful,  driving  straight 
into   Peter's  heart. 

"  Temperature  105 — pretty  bad."  Mitchell,  who  was  a 
stout,  short  man  with  red  cheeks,  grey  eyes  and  the  air  of  an 
amiable  Robin,  was  transformed  now  into  something  sharp, 
alert,  official. 

Peter  caught  his  arm — 

"It's  all   right?  ...  you  don't  think—?" 

The  man  turned  and  looked  at  him  with  eyes  so  kind 
that   Peter  trembled. 

"  Look  here,  we've  got  to  fight  it,  Westcott.  I  ought  to 
have  been  called  hours  ago.  But  keep  your  head  and  we'll 
pull  the  child  tlirough.  .  .  .  Better  go  down  and  have  some- 
thing to  eat.     You'll  need  it." 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  S91 

Outside  the  door  Peter  faced  a  trembling  Mrs.  Kant. 

"  Look  here,  you  lied  just  now.  You  never  took  the 
boy's  temperature." 

"  Well,  sir—" 

"  Did  you  or  not }  " 

"  Well,  sir,  Mrs.  Westcott  said  there  was  no  need.  I'm 
sure  I  thought — " 

"  You  leave  the  house  now — at  once.  Go  up  and  pack 
your  things  and  clear  out.  If  I  see  you  here  in  an  hour's 
time  the  police  shall  turn  you  out." 

The  woman  began  to  cry.  Peter  went  downstairs.  To 
his  own  surprise  he  found  that  he  could  eat  and  drink. 
Of  so  fundamental  an  importance  was  young  Stephen  in 
his  life  that  the  idea  that  he  could  ever  lose  him  was  of  an 
absurd  and  monstrous  incredibility.  No,  of  that  there  was 
no  question — but  he  was  conscious  nevertheless  of  the  su- 
preme urgency  of  the  occasion.  That  young  Stephen  had 
ever  been  delicate  or  in  any  way  a  weakling  was  a  mon- 
strous suggestion.  Always  when  one  thought  of  him  it  was 
a  baby  laughing,  tumbling — or  thoughtfully,  with  his  hand 
rolled  tightly  inside  his  father's,  taking  in  the  world. 

Just  think  of  all  the  tottering  creatures  who  go  on  and  on 
and  snap  their  fingers  at  death.  The  grotesque  old  men 
and  women !  Or  think  of  the  feeble  miserables  who  never 
know  what  a  day's  health  means — crowding  into  Davos  or 
shuddering  on  the  Riviera ! 

And  young  Stephen,  the  strongest,  most  vital  thing  in  the 
world!  Nevertheless,  suddenly,  Peter  found  that  he  could 
eat  and  drink  no  more.  He  put  the  food  aside  and  went 
upstairs  again. 

In  the  darkened  nursery  he  sat  in  a  chair  by  the  fire  and 
waited  for  the  hours  to  pass.  The  new  nurse  had  arrived  and 
moved  quietly  about  the  room.  There  was  no  sound  at  all 
save  the  monotonous  whispering  beseeching  little  cries  that 
came  from  the  bed.  One  had  heard  that  concentration  of 
will  might  do  so  much  in  the  directing  of  such  a  battle,  and 
surely  great  love  must  help.  Peter,  as  he  sat  in  the  half- 
darkness  thought  that  he  had  never  before  realised  his  love 
for  the  boy — how  immense  it  was — how  all-pervading,  so 
that  if  it  were  taken  from  him  life  would  be  instantly 
broken,  without  colour,  without  any  rhythm  or  force. 


392  FORTITUDE 

As  he  sat  there  he  thought  confusedly  of  a  great  number 
of  things  of  his  own  childhood — of  his  mother — of  a  boy 
at  Dawson's  who  had  asked  him  once  as  they  gazed  up  at 
a  great  mass  of  apple  blossoms  in  bloom,  "  Do  you  think 
there  is  anything  in  all  that  stuff  about  God  anyway,  West- 
cott?  " — of  a  night  when  he  had  gone  with  some  loose 
woman  of  the  town  and  of  the  wet  miry  street  that  they 
had  left  behind  them  as  she  had  closed  the  door — of  that 
night  at  the  party  when  he  had  seen  Cardillac  again — of 
the  things  that  Maradick  had  said  to  him  that  night  when 
young  Stephen  was  born — and  so  from  that  to  his  own  life, 
his  own  birth,  his  father,  Scaw  House,  the  struggle  that  it 
had  all  been. 

He  remembered  a  sentence  out  of  a  strange  novel  of 
Dostoieffsky's  that  he  had  once  read,  "  The  Brothers 
Karamazoff":  "  It's  a  feature  of  the  Karamazoffs  .  .  .  that 
thirst  for  life  regardless  of  everything — "  and  the 
Karamazoffs  were  of  a  sensual,  debased  stock — rotten  at 
the  base  of  them  with  an  old  drunken  buffoon  of  a  father 
— yes,  that  was  like  the  Westcotts.  All  his  life,  struggle 
.  .  .  and  young  Stephen — all  his  life,  struggle  .  .  .  and 
yet,  even  in  the  depths  of  degradation,  if  the  fight  were  to 
go  that  way  there  would  still  be  that  lust  for  life. 

So  many  times  he  had  been  almost  under.  First  Stephen 
Brant  had  saved  him,  then  at  Brockett's  Norah  Monogue, 
then  in  Bucket  Lane  his  illness,  then  in  Chelsea  his  mar- 
riage, lately  young  Stephen  .  .  .  always,  always  some- 
thing had  been  there  to  keep  him  on  his  feet.  But  if 
everything  were  taken  from  him,  if  he  were  absolutely,  na- 
kedly alone — what  then  ?     Ah,  what  then  ! 

He  buried  his  head  in  his  hands.  "  God,  you  don't  know 
what  young  Stephen  is  to  me — or,  yes,  of  course  you  do 
know,  God — and  because  you  do  know,  you  will  not  take 
him  from  me." 

The  little  tearing  pain  at  his  heart  held  him — every  now 
and  again  it  turned  like  some  grinding  key. 

Mitchell  entered  with  another  doctor.  Peter  went  over 
to  the  window,  and  whilst  they  made  their  examination, 
stared  through  the  glass  at  the  fretwork  of  trees,  the  golden 
haze  of  London  beyond,  two  stars  that  now,  when  the  storm 
had  spent  itself,  showed  in  a  dark  dim  sky.     Very  faintly 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  393 

the  clanging  note  of  trams,  the  clatter  of  a  hansom  cab,  the 
imperative  call  of  some  bell  came  to  him. 

The  world  could  thus  go  on!  Mitchell  crossed  to  him 
and  put  his  hand  on  his  shoulder — 

"  He's  pretty  bad,  Westcott.  An  operation's  out  of  the 
question  I'm  afraid.  But  if  you'd  like  another  opin- 
ion— " 

"  No  thanks.  I  trust  you  and  Hunt."  The  doctor  could 
feel  the  boy's  body  trembling  beneath  his  touch. 

"  It's  all  right,  Westcott.  Don't  be  frightened.  We'll 
do  all  mortals  can.  We'll  know  in  the  early  morning  how 
things  are  going  to  be.  The  child's  got  a  splendid  consti- 
tution." 

He  was  interrupted  by  the  opening  of  the  nursery  door 
and,  turning,  the  men  saw  Clare  with  the  light  of  the  pas- 
sage at  her  back,  standing  in  the  doorway.  Her  cloak  was 
trailing  on  the  floor — around  her  her  pink  filmy  dress  hung 
like  shadows  from  the  light  behind  her.  Her  face  was 
white,  her  eyes  wide. 

"What — ?"  she  whispered  in  the  voice  of  a  frightened 
child. 

Peter  crossed  the  room,  and  took  her  with  him  into  the 
passage,  closing  the  door  behind  him. 

She  clung  to  him,  looking  up  into  his  face. 

"  Stephen's  very  bad,  dear.  No,  it's  something  inter- 
nal—" 

"  And  I  went  out  to  a  party?  "  her  voice  was  trembling, 
she  was  very  near  to  tears.  "  But  I  was  miserable, 
wretched  all  the  time.  I  wanted  to  come  back,  I  knew  I 
oughtn't  to  have  gone.  .  .  .  Oh  Peter,  will  he  die?  Oh! 
poor  little  thing !     Poor  little  thing !  " 

Even  at  that  moment,  Peter  noticed,  she  spoke  as  though 
it  were  somebody  else's  baby. 

"  No,  no,  dear.  It'll  be  all  right.  Of  course  it  will. 
Mitchell's  here,  he'll  pull  him  through.  But  you'd  better 
go  and  lie  down,  dear.  I  promise  to  come  and  tell  you  if 
anything's  the  matter.  You  can't  do  any  good — there's  an 
excellent  nurse !  " 

"Where's  Mrs.  Kant?" 

"  I  dismissed  her  this  evening  for  lying  to  me.  Go  to 
bed,  Clare — really  it's  the  best  thing." 


S94  FORTITUDE 

She  began  to  cry  with  her  hands  up  to  her  face,  but 
she  went,  slowly,  with  her  cloak  still  trailing  after  her,  to 
her  room. 

She  had  not,  he  noticed,  entered  the  nursery. 


He  went  back  and  sat  down  again  in  the  arm-chair  by  the 
fire.  Poor  Clare !  he  felt  only  a  great  protecting  pity  for 
her — a  strange  feeling,  compounded  of  emotions  that  were 
imexpectedly  confused.  A  feeling  that  was  akin  to  what 
he  would  have  felt  had  she  been  his  sister  and  been  in- 
sulted by  some  drunken  blackguard  in  the  street.  Poor 
Clare!  She  was  so  young — simply  not  up  to  these  big 
grown-up  troubles. 

Those  little  cries  had  ceased — only  every  now  and  again 
an  echo  of  a  moan — so  slight  was  the  sound  that  broke  the 
silence.  The  hours  advanced  and  there  settled  about 
the  house  that  chilly  ominous  sense  of  anticipation  that  the 
early  morning  brings  in  its  grey  melancholy  hands.  It 
was  a  little  house  but  it  was  full,  now,  of  expectancy.  Up 
the  stairs,  through  the  passages,  pressing  against  the  win- 
dows there  were  many  presences  waiting  for  the  moment 
when  the  issue  of  this  struggle  would  be  decided.  The 
air  was  filled  with  their  chill  breath.  The  struggle  round 
the  bed  was  at  its  height.  On  one  side  doctors,  nurses,  the 
father,  the  mother — on  the  other  that  still,  ironic  Figure, 
in  His  very  aloofness  so  strong,  in  His  indifference  so  ter- 
rible. 

With  Peter,  as  the  grey  dawn  grew  nearer,  confidence 
fled.  He  was  suddenly  conscious  of  the  strength  and  in- 
visibility of  the  thing  that  he  was  fighting.  He  must  do 
something.  If  he  were  compelled  to  sit,  silently,  quietly, 
with  his  hands  folded,  much  longer,  he  would  go  mad. 
But  it  was  absurd — Stephen,  about  whom  he  had  made  so 
many  plans,  Stephen,  concerning  whom  there  had  been  that 
struggle  to  bring  about  his  very  existence  .  .  .  surely  all 
that  was  not  now  to  go  for  notliing  at  all. 

If  he  could  do  something — if  he  could  do  something! 

There  were  drops  of  sweat  on  his  forehead — inside  his 
clothes  his  body  was  hot  and  dry  and  had  shrunk,  it  seemed, 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  395 

into  some  tiny  shape,  like  a  nut,  so  that  his  things  hung 
loosely  all  about  him. 

He  could  not  bear  that  dark  cavernous  nursery,  with  the 
faint  lights  and  the  stairs  and  passages  beyond  it  so 
crowded   with    urgent   silence ! 

He   caught   Mitchell  on  the   shoulder. 

"  How  is  it  ?  " 

"  Oh !  we're  fighting  it.  It's  the  most  rapid  thing  I've 
ever  known.  If  we  only  could  have  operated !  Look  here, 
go  and  lie  down  for  a  bit — I'll  let  you  know  if  there's  any 
change ! " 

He  went  to  his  dressing-room,  all  ghostly  now  with  the 
first  struggling  light  of  dawn.  He  closed  the  door  behind 
him  and  then  fell  down  on  his  knees  by  the  bed,  pressing 
his  face  into  his  hands. 

He  prayed :  "  Oh !  God,  God,  God.  I  have  never  wanted 
anything  like  this  before  but  Stephen  is  more  to  me,  much, 
much  more  to  me  than  anything  that  I  have  ever  had — 
more,  far  more  than  my  own  life.  I  haven't  much  to  offer 
but  if  you  will  let  me  keep  Stephen  you  can  have  all  the 
rest.  You  can  send  me  back  to  Bucket  Lane,  take  my 
work,  anything  ...  I  want  Stephen  ...  I  want  Stephen. 
God,  he  is  such  a  good  boy.  He  has  always  been  good  and 
he  will  make  such  a  fine  man.  There  won't  be  many  men 
so  fine  as  he.  He's  good  as  gold.  God  I  will  die  myself 
if  he  may  live,  I'm  no  use.  I've  made  a  mess  of  things — 
but  let  him  live  and  take  me.  Oh!  God  I  want  him,  I 
want  him !  " 

He  broke  into  sobs  and  was  bowed  down  there  on  the 
floor,  his  body  quivering,  his  face  pressed  against  the  bed. 

He  was  conscious  that  Clare  had  joined  him.  She  must 
have  heard  him  from  her  room.  He  tried  as  he  felt  her 
body  pressed  against  his,  to  pull  himself  together,  but  the 
crying  now  had  mastered'  him  and  he  could  only  feel  her 
pushing  with  her  hand  to  find  his — and  at  last  he  let"  her 
take  his  hand  and  hold  it. 

He  heard  her  whisper  in  his  ear. 

"  Peter  dear,  don't — don't  cry  like  that.  I  can't  bear 
to  hear  you  like  that.  I'm  so  miserable,  Peter.  I've  been 
so  wicked — so  cross  and  selfish.  I've  hurt  you  so  often — 
I'm  going  to  be  better,  Peter.     I  am  really." 


S96  FORTITUDE 

At  that  moment  they  might  have  come  together  with  ^ 
reality,  an  honesty  that  no  after-events  could  have  shaken. 
But  to  Peter  Clare  was  very  far  away.  He  was  not  so 
conscious  of  her  as  he  was  of  those  presences  that  thronged 
the  house.  What  could  she  do  for  him  now?  Afterwards 
perhaps.     But  now  it  was  Stephen — Stephen — Stephen — 

But  he  let  her  hold  his  hand  and  he  felt  her  hair  against 
his  cheek,  and  at  last  he  put  his  arm  around  her  and  held 
her  close  to  him,  and  she,  with  her  face  against  his,  went 
fast  asleep.  He  looked  down  at  her.  She  looked  so  young 
and  helpless  that  the  sight  of  her  leaning,  tired  and  beaten, 
against  him,  touched  him  and  he  picked  her  up,  carried  her 
into  her  room  and  laid  her  on  her  bed. 

How  light  and  tiny  she  was! 

He  was  conscious  of  his  own  immense  fatigue.  Mitchell 
had  told  him  that  he  would  wake  him ;  good  fellow,  Mitchell ! 
He  lay  down  on  the  bed  in  his  dressing-room  and  was  in- 
stantly asleep. 

He  was  outside  Scaw  House.  He  was  mother-naked  and 
the  howling  wind  and  rain  buffeted  his  body  and  the  stones 
cut  his  feet.  The  windows  of  the  house  were  dark  and 
barred.  He  could  just  reach  the  lower  windows  with  his 
hands  if  he  stood  on  tiptoe. 

He  tapped  again  and  again. 

He  was  tired,  exhausted.  He  had  come  a  long,  long  way 
and  the  rain  hurt  his  bare  flesh.  At  last  a  candle  shone 
dimly  behind  the  dark  window.  Some  one  was  there,  and 
instantly  at  the  moment  of  his  realising  that  aid  had  come 
he  was  conscious  also  that  he  must,  on  all  accounts,  refuse 
it.  He  knew  that  if  he  entered  the  house  Stephen  would 
die.  It  depended  on  him  to  save  Stephen.  He  turned  to 
flee  but  his  father  had  unbarred  the  door  and  was  drawing 
him  in.  He  struggled,  he  cried  out,  he  fought,  but  his 
father  was  stronger  than  he.  He  was  on  the  threshold — 
he  could  see  through  the  dark  ill-smelling  hall  to  the  door 
beyond.  His  father's  hand  fastened  on  his  arm  like  a 
vice.  His  body  was  bathed  in  sweat,  he  screamed  .  .  . 
and  woke  to  find  the  room  dim  in  the  morning  light  and 
Mitchell  shaking  him  by  tlie  arm. 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  Sd'f 

IV 

He  was  still  dreaming.  Now  he  was  in  the  nursery. 
Clare  was  kneeling  by  Stephen's  bed.  One  doctor  was 
bending  down — the  nurse  was  crying  very  softly. 

He  looked  down  on  his  son.  As  he  looked  the  little  face 
was,  for  an  instant,  puckered  with  pain.  The  mouth,  the 
eyes,  the  throat  struggled. 

The  tiny  hands  lifted  for  a  moment,  hung,  and  then  like 
fluttering  leaves,  fell  down  on  to  the  counterpane.  Then 
the  body  was  suddenly  quiet,  the  face  was  peaceful  and 
the  head  had  fallen  gently,  sideways  against  the  pillow. 

At  that  moment  of  time,  throughout  the  house,  the  Pres- 
ences departed.  The  passages,  the  rooms  were  freed,  the 
air  was  no  longer  cold. 

At  that  moment  also  Peter  awoke.  Mitchell  said :  "  The 
boy's   gone,  Westcott." 

Peter,  turning  his  back  upon  them  all,  drove  from  him,  so 
softly  that  they  could  scarcely  hear,  but  in  a  voice  of  agony 
that   Mitchell   never   afterwards   forgot: — 

"  I  wanted  him  so — I  wanted  him  so." 


CHAPTER  XII 
A  WOMAN  CALLED  ROSE  BENNETT 


THE  days  that  followed  were  dead — dead  in  more  than 
any  ordinary  sense  of  the  word.  But  perhaps  it  was 
Peter  who  was  dead.  He  moved,  ate,  drank,  even  wrote  his 
reviews,  slept — he  thanked  gravely  all  those  who  offered 
him  condolences — ^wrote  letters  in  answer  to  kind  friends. 

..."  Dear  S It  was  just  like  you  to  write  so  kindly 

and  sympathetically.  .  .  ."     And  all  this  time  he  was  with- 
out any  kind  of  emotion.     He  was  aware  that  there  was  some-    \ 
thing  in  the  back  of  his  brain  that,  were  it  once  called  upon     j 
to  awake,  might  stir  him  into  life  again.     What  it  would     j 
tell  him  he  did  not  know,  something  about  love,  something 
intensely  sorrowful,  something  that  had  occurred  very  prob- 
ably to  himself.     He  did  not  want  to  live — to  think,  to  feel. 
Thinking  meant  pain,  meant  a  sudden  penetrating  into  that 
room  shrouded  now  by  heavy,  black  curtains  but  containing, 
were  those  curtains  drawn,  some  great,  phantasmal  horror. 

He  was  dimly  aware  that  the  people  about  him  were 
frightened.  Clare,  Bobby  Galleon,  Cardillac.  He  knew 
that  they  would  be  glad  for  him  to  draw  those  curtains 
aside  and  penetrate  into  that  farther  room.  That  was  un- 
kind of  them.  He  had  no  other  emotion  but  that  it  was 
unkind  of  them.  Beyond  that  unkindness,  they  did  not 
exist. 

He  was  thinner.  His  shoulders  seemed  to  pierce  sharply 
his  clothes;  his  cheeks  were  white  and  hollow,  there  were 
dark  lines  beneath  his  eyes,  dark,  grey  patches.  His  legs 
were  not  so  straight,  nor  so  strong.  Moreover  his  eyes 
were  as  though  they  were  covered  with  a  film.  Seeing 
everything  they  yet  saw  nothing  at  all.  They  passed 
through  the  world  and  were  confronted  by  the  heavy,  veiling 
curtains.  .  .  . 

This  condition  lasted  for  many  days.     Of  all  about  him 

398 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  399 

none  understood  him  so  well  as  Bobby  Galleon.  Bobby  had 
always  understood  him,  and  now  he  felt  for  him  with  a 
tenderness  that  had  both  the  past  and  the  future  to  heighten 
its  poignancy.  It  seemed  to  Bobby  that  nothing  more  tragic 
than  the  death  of  this  child  could  possibly  have  occurred. 
It  filled  him  with  anxiety  for  the  future,  it  intensified  to  a 
depth  that  only  so  simple  and  aifectionate  a  character  as 
his  could  feel,  the  love  that  he  had  always  had  for  Peter. 

He  was  with  him  during  these  days  continually,  waiting 
for  the  relief  to  come. 

"  It's  got  to  come  soon,"  he  said,  "  or  the  boy '11  go  mad." 

At  last  it  came. 

One  day  about  tea-time  they  were  sitting  in  Peter's  up- 
stairs study.  It  had  been  a  day  of  showers  and  now  the 
curtains  were  not  drawn  and  a  green-grey  dusk  glimmered 
beyond  the  windows. 

Peter  was  writing  letters,  and  as  Bobby  watched  him  he 
seemed  to  him  like  some  automaton,  something  wound  into 
life  by  some  clever  inventor.  The  hand  moved  across  the 
paper — the  dead  eyes  encountered  nothing  in  their  gaze, 
the  shoulders  were  the  loosely  drooping  shoulders  of  an 
old   man. 

"Can  you  see,  Peter?" 

"  Yes,  thanks.     Switch  on  the  light  if  you  like." 

Bobby  got  up  and  moved  to  the  door.  The  dusk  behind 
Peter's  face  flung  it  into  sharp  white  outline. 

Another  shower!  The  rain  at  first  in  single  drops,  then 
more  swiftly,  fell  with  gentle,  pattering  fingers  up  and 
down  the  window.  It  was  the  only  sound,  except  the  scrap- 
ing of  Peter's  pen.  The  pen  stopped.  Peter  raised  his 
head,  listening. 

Bobby  switched  on  the  light  and  as  he  did  so  Peter  in 
a  strangled  breathless  mutter  whispered — 

"  The  rain !  The  rain !  It  was  like  that  that  night. 
Stephen !     Stephen !  " 

His  head  fell  on  to  his  hands  and  he  burst  into  a  storm 
of  tears. 


And  now  Peter  was  out  to  be  hurt,  hurt  more  horribly 
than   he   could   have   ever   believed   possible.     It   was   like 


400  FORTITUDE 

walking — as  they  did  in  the  days  of  the  Ordeal — on  red- 
hot  iron,  every  step  an  agony.  Always  there  was  something 
to  remind  him !  He  could  go  nowhere,  see  nobody,  summon 
no  kind  of  recollection  out  of  the  past  without  this  coming 
to  him.  There  were  a  thousand  things  that  Stephen  had 
done,  that  he,  Peter,  had  never  noticed  at  the  time.  He 
was  haunted  now  with  regrets,  he  had  not  made  enough  of 
him  whilst  he  was  there!  Ah!  had  he  only  known  that  the 
time  was  to  be  so  short!  How  he  would  have  spent  those 
precious,  precious  moments !  It  was  as  though  he  had  flung 
away,  wilfully,  jKJSsessions  of  the  utmost  price — cast  them 
oflf  as  though  it  had  been  his  very  intention  to  feel,  after- 
wards, this  burning  regret.  The  things  in  the  nursery  were 
packed  away,  but  there  remained  the  room,  the  frieze  with 
the  dragons  and  princesses,  the  fire-place,  the  high  broad 
window.  Again  and  again  he  saw  babies  in  the  streets, 
in  the  parks  and  fancied  that  Stephen  had  come  back 
again. 

The  thing  had  happened  to  him  so  swiftly  that,  behind 
reason,  there  lurked  the  thought  that  perhaps,  with  equal 
suddenness,  Stephen  would  be  restored.  To  come  back  one 
afternoon  and  to  find  him  there !  To  find  him  lying  there 
on  his  back  in  his  cot  looking  up  at  the  ceiling,  to  find  him 
labouring  unsteadily  on  his  feet,  clinging  to  the  sides  of 
his  bed  and  shouting — to  find  him  laughing  at  the  jumping 
waves  in  the  fire — to  find  him !  .  .  .  No,  never  to  be  found 
again — gone,  hopelessly,  cruelly,  for  no  reason,  for  no  one's 
good  or  benefit — simply  for  some  one's  sport. 

But,  strangely,  more  than  the  actual  Stephen  did  he 
miss  the  imaginary  future  Stephen  at  school,  hero  of  a 
thousand  games,  winner  of  a  thousand  prizes,  the  Stephen 
grown  up,  famous  already  at  so  young  an  age,  loved  by  men 
and  women,  handsome,  good.  .  .  .  Oh !  the  folly  of  it !  No 
human  being  could  carry  all  the  glories  that  Peter  had  de- 
signed for  his  son — no  human  being,  then  how  much  less  a 
Westcott.  It  might  be  best  after  all,  young  Stephen  had 
been  spared.  Until  every  stone  of  Scaw  House  was  level 
with  the  ground  no  Westcott  could  be  termed  safe — perhaps 
not  then. 

Now  he  realised  how  huge  a  place  in  his  heart  the  boy 
had  filled  dimly,  because  as  yet  he  refused  to  bring  it  to 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  401 

the  open  light  he  was  conscious  that,  during  these  past 
two  years  he  had  been  save  for  Stephen,  a  very  lonely 
man.  It  was  odd  that  Stephen  the  elder  and  Stephen  the 
younger  should  have  been  the  only  two  persons  in  his  life 
to  find  the  real  inside  of  him — they,  too,  and  perhaps  Norah 
Monogue.  But,  otherwise,  not  Bobby,  nor  Cards,  nor  Alice 
Galleon,  nor  Mr.  Zanti — nor  Clare. 

Not  Clare.  He  faced  the  fact  with  a  sudden  shudder. 
Now  that  Stephen  was  gone  he  and  Clare  were  face  to  face 
— face  to  face  as  they  had  never  been  since  that  first  happy 
year  of  their  marriage.  That  first  year  of  their  marriage — 
and  now ! 

With  an  instant  clenching  of  his  teeth  he  pulled  down 
the  blinds  upon  that  desolating  view. 

in 

With  teeth  still  clenched  he  set  himself  to  build  up  his 
house  again.  Clare  was  very  quiet  and  submissive  during 
those  first  weeks.  Her  little  figure  looked  helpless  and 
appealing  in  its  deep  black;  she  was  prettier  than  she  had 
ever  been  in  her  life  before.  People  said,  "  Poor  Mrs. 
Westcott,  she  feels  the  loss  of  her  baby  so  dreadfully  "— 
and  they  didn't  think  about  Peter.  Indeed  some  people 
thought  him  callous.  "  Mr.  Westcott  seemed  to  be  so  fond 
of  the  child.  Now  I  really  believe  he's  forgotten  all  about 
him."  Bobby  was  the  only  person  in  the  world  who  knew 
how  Peter  suffered. 

Clare  was,  indeed,  after  a  time,  reassured.  Peter,  after 
all,  seemed  not  to  mind.  Did  he  mind  anything?  He  was 
so  often  glum  and  silent  that  really  you  couldn't  tell.  Clare 
herself  had  been  frightened  on  that  night  when  the  baby 
had  died.  She  had  probably  never  in  all  her  life  felt  a 
more  genuine  emotion  than  she  had  known  when  she  knelt 
by  Peter's  side  and  went  to  sleep  in  his  arms.  She  was 
quite  ready  to  feel  that  emotion  again  would  Peter  but 
allow  her.  But  no.  He  showed  no  emotion  himself  and 
expected  no  one  else  to  show  any,  for  he  was  ready  to 
share  it  but  in  her  heart  of  hearts  she  longed  to  fling  away 
from  her  this  emotional  atmosphere.  She  had  loved  the 
baby — of  course   she  had  loved  it.     But  she  had  always 


40«  FORTITUDE 

known  that  something  would  happen  to  it — always.  If 
Peter  would  insist  on  having  those  horrid  Cornishmen.  .  .  . 
At  heart  she  connected  that  dreadful  day  when  those  horri- 
ble men  had  played  about  in  the  nursery  with  baby's  death. 
Of  course  it  was  enough  to  kill  any  baby. 

So,  ultimately,  it  all  came  back  to  Peter's  fault.  Clare 
found  real  satisfaction  in  the  thought.  Meanwhile  she  em- 
phatically stated  her  desire  to  be  happy  again. 

She  stated  it  always  in  Peter's  absence,  feeling  that  he 
would,  in  no  way,  understand  her.  "  It  can't  help  poor  dear 
little  Stephen  that  we  should  go  on  being  melancholy  and 
doing  nothing.     That's  only  morbid,  isn't  it,  mother?" 

Mrs.  Rossiter  entirely  agreed,  as  indeed  she  always 
agreed  with  anything  that  Clare  suggested. 

*'  The  dear  thing  does  look  lovely  in  black,  though,"  she 
confided  to  Mrs.  Galleon.  "  Mr.  Cardillac  couldn't  take 
his  eyes  off  her  yesterday  at  luncheon." 

Mrs.  Rossiter  and  Jerry  Cardillac  had,  during  the  last 
year,  become  the  very  best  of  friends.  Peter  was  glad  to 
see  that  it  was  so.  Peter  couldn't  pretend  to  care  very 
deeply  about  his  mother-in-law,  but  he  felt  that  it  would  do 
her  all  the  good  in  the  world  to  see  something  of  old  Cards. 
It  would  broaden  her  understanding,  give  her  perhaps  some 
of  that  charity  towards  the  whole  world  that  was  one  of 
Cards'  most  charming  features.  Cards,  in  fact,  had  been 
so  much  in  the  house  lately  that  he  might  be  considered  one 
of  the  family.  No  one  could  have  been  more  tender,  more 
symjjathetic,  more  exactly  right  about  young  Stephen's 
death.  He  had  become,  during  those  w^eks  almost  a  neces- 
sity. He  seemed  to  have  no  particular  interest  of  his  own 
in  life.  He  dressed  very  perfectly,  he  went  to  a  number 
of  parties,  he  had  delightful  little  gatherings  in  his  own 
flat,  but,  with  it  all,  he  was  something  more — a  great  deal 
more — than  the  mere  society  idler.  There  was  a  hint  at 
possible  wildness,  an  almost  sinister  suggestion  of  possible 
lawlessness  that  made  him  infinitely  attractive.  He  was 
such  good  company  and  yet  one  felt  that  one  didn't  know 
nearly  the  whole  of  him. 

To  Peter  he  was  the  most  wonderful  thing  in  the  world, 
to  Clare  he  was  rapidly  becoming  so— no  wonder  then  that 
the  Roundabout  saw  him  so  often. 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  403- 

IV 

It  would  need  a  very  acute  perception  indeed  to  pursue 
precisely  the  train  of  cause  and  effect  in  Mrs.  Rossiter's 
mind  after  young  Stephen's  death.  Her  black  garments 
added,  in  the  most  astonishing  fashion,  to  her  placid  flat- 
ness. If  she  had  gloried  before  in  an  armour  that  was  so 
negative  that  it  became  instantly  exceedingly  dangerous,  her 
appearance  now  was  terrifying  beyond  all  words.  Her 
black  silk  had  apparently  no  creases,  no  folds — it  almost 
eliminated  terms  and  boundaries.  Mrs.  Rossiter  could  not 
now  be  said  to  come  into  a  room — she  was  simply  there. 
One  was  sitting,  gazing  it  might  be  at  the  fire,  a  looking- 
glass,  a  picture  or  two,  when  suddenly  there  came  a  black 
shadow,  something  that  changed  the  colour  of  things  a  lit- 
tle, something  that  obscured  certain  objects,  but  scarcely 
anything  more  definite.  The  yellow  brooch  was  definite, 
cold,  stony  eyes  hung  a  little  above  it,  over  those  a  high 
white  forehead — otherwise  merely  a  black  shadow  putting 
out  the  fire. 

She  was  in  the  Roundabout  now  all  the  time.  How  poor 
Dr.  Rossiter  fared  it  was  difficult  to  imagine,  but  he  cared 
for  Clare  as  deeply  as  his  wife  did  and  was  quite  ready  for 
everything  to  be  sacrificed  to  her  at  this  crisis  of  her  his- 
tory. 

Mrs.  Rossiter,  meanwhile,  was  entirely  convinced  that 
Peter  was  responsible  for  his  son's  death.  Had  you  sud- 
denly challenged  her  and  demanded  her  reasoned  argument 
with  regard  to  this  matter  she  would  probably  have  failed 
you — she  did  not  like  reasoned  arguments — but  she  would 
also  have  been  most  sincerely  indignant  had  you  called  her 
a  liar  and  would  have  sworn  to  her  convictions  before  a 
court  of  law. 

"  Those  Cornishmen "  had  frightened  the  poor  little 
thing  into  fits  and  it  was  only  to  be  expected.  Moreover 
it  followed  from  this  that  a  man  who  murdered  his  only 
child  would  most  assuredly  take  to  beating  his  wife  before 
very  long.  After  that,  anything  might  happen.  Peter 
was  on  a  swift  road  to  being  a  "  Perfect  Devil." 

Indeed,  allow  Mrs.  Rossiter  two  consecutive  hours  of 
peace  and  quiet,  she,  sitting  like  the  personification  of  the 


404  FORTITUDE 

English  climate,  alone  before  her  fire,  and  she  could  make 
any  one  into  anything — once  made  so  they  remained. 

It  mattered  nothing  to  her  that  poor  Peter  was,  during 
these  weeks,  the  most  subdued  and  gently  courteous  of 
husbands — that  was  as  it  might  be  (a  favourite  phrase  of 
hers).  She  knew  him  .  .  .  and,  so  knowing,  waited  for 
the  inevitable  end. 

But  the  more  certain  she  was  of  his  villainous  possibili- 
ties the  more  placid  she  became.  She  spread  her  placidity 
over  everything.  It  lay,  like  an  invisible  glue,  upon  every- 
thing in  the  Roundabout — you  could  feel  it  on  the  door- 
handles, as  you  feel  the  jammy  reminiscences  of  incautious 
servant-maids.  Peter  felt  it  but  did  not  know  what  it  was 
that  he  had  to  deal  with. 

He  had  determined,  when  the  sharpest  shock  of  Stephen's 
death  had  passed,  and  he  was  able  to  think  of  other  things, 
that  the  supremely  important  thing  for  him  now  to  do  was 
to  get  back  to  his  old  relations  with  Clare.  There  was,  he 
grimly  reflected,  "  Mortimer  Stant "  to  be  finished  within  a 
month  or  two  and  he  knew,  perfectly  well,  with  the  as- 
surance of  past  experience  that  whilst  Clare  held  the  stage, 
Mortimer  had  the  poorest  of  chances — nevertheless  Clare 
:was,  at  this  moment,  the  thing  to  struggle  for. 

He  must  get  her  back — he  must  get  her  back. 

Behind  his  brain,  all  this  time,  was  the  horror  of  being 
left  alone  in  the  world  and  of  what  he  might  do — ^then. 

To  get  Clare  back  he  must  have  the  assistance  of  two 
people — Mrs.  Rossiter  and  Cards. 

It  was  at  this  point  thalj  he  perceived  Mrs.  Rossiter 's 
placidity. 

He  could  not  get  at  her  at  all — he  could  not  get  near  her. 
He  tried  in  every  way,  during  these  weeks,  to  please  her. 
She  apparently  noticed  nothing.  He  could  force  no  direct 
opinion  about  anything  from  her  and  yet  he  was  conscious 
of  opposition.  He  was  conscious  of  opposition,  increas- 
ingly, every  day. 

"  I  believe  she  wants  Clare  to  hate  me,"  he  suddenly 
revealed  to  himself,  and,  with  that,  all  hope  of  her  as  an 
ally  vanished. 

Then  he  hated  her — he  hated  her  more  bitterly  every 
day. 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  406 

He  wanted  to  tell  her  not  to  call  him  "  Peter  dear  " — 
she  loved  to  put  him  in  positions  that  showed  him  in  the 
worst  light  to  Clare. 

At  luncheon  for  instance:  "Peter  dear,  it  would  be  a 
nice  thing  for  you  and  Clare  to  go  to  that  Private  View  at 
the  Carfax  this  afternoon.  You've  nothing  to  do,  Clare, 
have  you  ?  " 

Peter  knew  that  Mrs.  Rossiter  had  already  ascertained 
that  he  was  engaged.  He  knew  also  that  Clare  had  had 
no  thought  of  Peter's  company  before  but  that  now  she 
would  very  speedily  feel  herself  injured. 

"  I'm  afraid — "   Peter  would  begin. 

"  Peter's  too  engaged  to  take  you,  Clare  dear." 

**  I  dare  say  Jerry  will  come — "  this  from  Clare. 

"  Ah !  yes,  Mr.  Cardillac  is  always  ready  to  take  any 
trouble,  Peter." 

"If  you'd  let  me  know  earlier,  Clare,  that  you  wanted 
me." 

Mrs.  Rossiter.  "Oh!  don't  put  yourself  out,  Peter.  It 
would  never  do  to  break  an  engagement.  Only  it  seems 
such  a  long  time  since  you  and  Clare — " 

Peter.     "  We'll   go  to-morrow  afternoon,   Clare." 

Clare.  "  You're  so  gloomy  when  you  do  come,  Peter. 
It's  like  going  out  with  a  ghost." 

Mrs.  Rossiter.  "  Ah !  Peter  has  his  work,  dear — so 
much  hangs  on  the  next  book,  doesn't  it,  Peter?  Naturally 
the  last  one  didn't  quite — " 

Peter.     "  Look  here,  Clare,  I'll  chuck  this  engagement." 

Clare.  "  No,  thank  you,  Peter — Jerry  and  I  will  be  all 
right.     You  can  join  us  if  you  like — " 

The  fact  was  that  Peter  wasn't  tactful.  He  showed 
Mrs.  Rossiter  much  too  plainly  that  he  disliked  her  in- 
tensely. He  had  no  idea  that  he  showed  it  her.  He 
thought,  indeed,  that  he  was  very  skilful  in  his  disguise  of 
his  feelings  but  Mrs.  Rossiter  knew  and  soon  Clare  knew 
also. 

Peter  had  no  conception  of  subtlety  in  the  matter.  It 
was  clear  to  him  that  he  had  once  been  devoted  to  Clare 
and  she  to  him,  it  was  clear  also  that  that  relationship  had 
recently  been  dimmed.  Now  that  Stephen  was  gone  that 
early  intimacy  must  be  restored  and  the  fact  that  he  was 


406  FORTITUDE 

willing  on  his  side  to  do  anything  to  bring  it  back  seemed 
to  him  reason  enough  for  its  restoration.  That  the  whole 
matter  was  composed  of  the  most  delicate  and  intricate 
threads  ne\-er  occurred  to  him  for  an  instant.  Clare  had 
loved  him  once.  Clare  would  love  him  again — and  the 
sooner  it  happened  the  better  for  him. 

Meanwhile  Mrs.  Rossiter  being  enemy  rather  than  ally 
there  remained  Cards. 

But  Cards  was  strange.  Peter  could  never  claim  to  have 
been  intimate  with  him — their  relationship  had  been  founded 
on  an  inequality,  on  a  recognition  from  Peter  of  Cards'  su- 
periority. Cards  had  always  laughed  at  Peter,  always 
patronised  him.  But  now,  although  Cards  had  been  in  the 
place  so  much  of  late,  the  distance  seemed  farther  than 
ever  before. 

Cards  was  as  kind  as  he  could  be — always  in  good  spir- 
its, always  ready  to  do  anything,  but  Peter  noticed  that  it 
was  only  when  Clare  was  present  that  Cards  changed  from 
jest  to  earnest.  "  He  thinks  Clare  worth  talking  to  se- 
riously. ...  I  suppose  it's  because  he  was  at  Dawson's 
.  .  .  but  after  all  I'm  not  an  imbecile." 

This  attitude  of  Cards  was  in  fact  as  vague  and  nebulous 
as  all  the  other  things  that  seemed  now  to  stand  between 
Peter  and  Clare. 

Peter  tried  to  talk  to  Cards — ^he  was  always  prevented 
— held  oflF  with  a  laughing  hand. 

"What's  the  matter  with  me.?"  thought  Peter.  "What 
have  I  done."*     It's  like  being  out  in  a  fog." 

At  last  one  evening,  after  dinner,  when  Clare  and  Mrs. 
Rossiter  had   gone  upstairs  he  demanded   an   answer. 

"  Look  here.  Cards,  what  have  I  done  ?  You  profess 
to  be  a  friend  of  mine.  Tell  me  what  crime  I've  com- 
mitted.?" 

Cards'  eyes  had  been  laughing.  Suddenly  he  was  se- 
rious.    His  dark,  clean-cut  face  was  stern,  almost  accusing. 

"Profess,  Peter?     I  hope  you  don't  doubt  it?" 

"  No,  of  course  not.  You  know  you're  the  best  friend 
I've  got.     Tell  me — what  have  I  done?" 

"Done?" 

"  Yes — ^you  and  Clare  and  her  mother — all  of  you  keep 
me  at  arms'  length — why  ?  " 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  40T 

*'  Do  you  really  want  a  straight  talking  ?  " 

"  Of  course." 

"  Well,  I  can  only  speak  for  myself — but — to  tell  the 
truth,  old  boy — I  think  you've  been  rather  hard  on  poor 
little  Clare." 

For  the  first  time  since  his  marriage  Peter  resented 
Cards'  words.  "  Poor  little  Clare " — wasn't  that  a  little 
too  intimate.'' 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  asked,  his  voice  a  little  harder. 

"  Well — I  don't  think  you  understand  her,  Peter." 

"  Explain." 

"  She's  a  happy,  merry  person  if  ever  there  was  one  in 
this  world.  She  wants  all  the  happiness  you  can  give 
her—" 

"WeU.?" 

"  Well,  you  don't  seem  to  see  that.  Of  course  young 
Stephen's  death — " 

"  Let's  leave  that — "  Peter's  voice  was  harder  again. 

"  Oh,  all  right — just  as  you  please.  But  most  men  would 
have  seen  what  a  shock  it  must  be  to  a  girl,  so  young,  who 
knew  so  little  about  the  cruelty  of  life.  You  didn't — you 
don't  mind,  Peter,  do  you? — ^you  didn't  seem  to  think  of 
that.  Never  tried  to  cheer  her  up,  take  her  about,  take  her 
out  of  herself.     You  just  wrapped  yourself  up — " 

"  You  don't  understand,"  muttered  Peter,  his  eyes  low- 
ered. "If  I'd  thought  that  she'd  really  minded  Stephen's 
death—" 

"  Oh !  come  Peter — that's  grossly  unfair.  Why,  she  felt 
it  all  most  horribly.  That  shows  how  little  you've  under- 
stood her,  how  little  you've  appreciated  her.  You've  al- 
ways been  a  gloomy,  morbid  devil  and — " 

"  All  right.  Cards — that'll  do." 

Cards  stood  back  from  the  table,  his  mouth  smiling,  his 
eyes  hard  and  cold. 

"  Oh !  no,  it  won't.  You  asked  for  it  and  now  you're 
going  to  get  it.  You've  not  only  been  gloomy  and  morbid 
all  your  life,  you've  been  selfish  as  well — always  thinking 
of  yourself  and  the  books  you  were  going  to  write,  and 
then  when  they  did  come  they  weren't  such  great  shakes. 
You  oughtn't  to  have  married  at  all — ^you've  never  consid- 
ered Clare  at  all — ^your  treatment  of  her — " 


408  FORTITUDE 

Peter  stood  up,  his  face  white,  so  that  his  eyes  and  the 
lines  of  his  mouth  showed  black  in  the  shadow. 

"  Clear  out — I've  heard   enough." 

"Oh!  that's  just  like  you — ask  me  for  my  opinion  and 
then  lose  your  temper  over  it.  Really,  Peter,  you're  like 
a  boy  of  ten — ^you  don't  deserve  to  be  treated  as  a  grown-up 
person." 

Peter's  voice  shook.  "  Clear  out — clear  out  or  I'll  do 
for  you — get  out  of  my  house — " 

"  Certainly." 

Cards  opened  the  door  and  was  gone.  Peter  heard  him 
besitate  for  a  moment  in  the  hall,  get  his  hat  and  coat  and 
then  close  the  hall-door  after  him. 

The  house  was  suddenly  silent.  Peter  stood,  his  hiinds 
clenched.     Then  he  went  out  into  the  hall. 

He  heard  Mrs.  Rossiter's  voice  from  above — "  Aren't  you 
two  men  ever  coming  up  ?  " 

"  Jerry's  gone." 

"Gone.?" 

"  Yes — we've  had  a  row." 

Mrs.  Rossiter  made  no  reply.  He  heard  the  drawingf- 
room  door  close.  Then  he,  too,  took  his  coat  and  hat  and 
went  out 


The  night  was  cool  and  sweet  with  a  great  silver  haze 
of  stars  above  the  sharply  outlined  roofs  and  chimneys. 
The  golden  mist  from  the  streets  met  the  night  air  and 
mingled  with  it. 

Peter  walked  furiously,  without  thinking  of  direction. 
Some  clock  struck  half-past  nine.  His  temper  faded 
swiftly,  leaving  him  cold,  miserable,  regretful.  There  went 
his  damnable  temper  again,  surging  up  suddenly  so  hot  and 
fierce  that  it  had  control  of  him  almost  before  he  knew 
that  it  was  there.  How  like  him,  too!  Now  when  things 
were  bad  enough,  when  he  must  bend  all  his  energies  to 
bringing  peace  back  into  the  house  again,  he  must  needs 
go  and  quarrel  with  the  best  friend  he  had  in  the  world. 
He  had  never  quarrelled  with  Cards  before,  never  had  there 
been  the  slightest  word  between  them,  and  now  he  bad  in- 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  409 

suited  him  so  that,  probably,  he  would  never  come  into 
their  house  again. 

And  behind  his  immediate  repentance  at  the  quarrel  there 
also  bit  into  his  heart  the  knowledge  that  there  was  truth 
in  the  accusation  that  Cardillac  had  flung  at  him.  He  had 
been  morbid,  he  had  been  selfish.  Absorbed  by  his  own 
grief  at  Stephen's  loss  he  had  given  no  thought  to  any  one 
else.  He  had  expected  Clare  to  be  like  himself,  had  made 
no  allowance  for  differences  of  temperament,  had.  .  .  . 
Poor  Peter  had  never  before  known  an  hour  of  such  mis- 
erable self-condemnation.  Had  he  known  where  to  find  him 
he  would  have  gone  that  very  instant  to  beg  Cards*  par- 
don. 

Now,  in  comparison  with  his  own  black  deeds,  Mrs.  Ros- 
siter  seemed  an  angel.  He  should  show  her  in  the  future 
that  he  could  mend  his  ways.  Clare  should  make  no  further 
complaint  of  him.  He  found  himself  in  Leicester  Square 
and  still  wrapt  in  his  own  miserable  thoughts  went  into 
the  Empire.  He  walked  up  and  down  the  Promenade 
wondering  that  so  many  people  could  take  the  world  so 
lightly.  Very  far  away  a  gentleman  in  evening  dress 
was  singing  a  song — his  mouth  could  be  seen  to  open 
and  shut,  sometimes  his  arms  moved — ^no  sound  could  be 
heard. 

The  Promenade  was  packed.  Up  and  down  ladies  in 
enormous  hats  walked  languidly.  They  all  wore  clothes 
that  were  gorgeous  and  a  little  soiled.  They  walked  for 
the  most  part  in  couples  and  appeared  to  be  absorbed  in 
conversation,  but  every  now  and  again  they  smiled  mechan- 
ically, recognised  a  friend  or  saw  somebody  who  was  likely 
very  shortly  to  become  one. 

There  was  a  great  deal  of  noise.  There  were  numbers 
of  men — old  gentlemen  who  were  there  because  they  had 
always  been  there,  young  gentlemen  who  were  there  be- 
cause they  had  never  been  there  before  and  a  few  gentle- 
man who  had  come  to  see  the  Ballet. 

The  lights  blazed,  the  heat  and  noise  steadily  accumu- 
lated, corks  were  popped  in  the  bar  behind,  promises  were 
broken  in  the  Promenade  in  front,  and  soon  after  eleven, 
when  everything  had  become  so  uncomfortable  that  the  very 
lights  in  the  building  protested,  the  doors  were  opened  ^nd 


410  FORTITUDE 

the  whole  Bubble  and  Squeak  was  flung  out  into  the  cool 
and  starlit  improprieties  of  Leicester  Square. 

Peter  could  not  have  told  you  if  he  had  been  asked,  that 
he  had  been  there,  felt  a  devouring  thirst  and  entered  a 
building  close  at  hand  where  there  were  rows  of  little  round 
tables  and  numbers  of  little  round  waiters. 

Peter  sat  down  at  the  first  table  that  occurred  to  him 
and  it  was  not  until  he  looked  round  about  him  that  he 
discovered  that  a  lady  in  a  huge  black  hat  was  sitting  smil- 
ing opposite  him.  Her  cheeks  were  rouged,  her  gloves  were 
soiled  and  her  hair  looked  as  though  it  might  fall  into  a 
thousand  pieces  at  the  slightest  provocation,  but  her  eyes 
were  pathetic  and  tired.     They  didn't  belong  to  her  face. 

"  Hullo,  dear,  let's  have  a  drink.  Haven't  had  a  drink 
to-night." 

He  asked  her  what  she  would  like  and  she  told  him. 
She  studied  him  carefully  for  quite  a  long  time. 

"  Down  on  your  luck,  old  chum?  "  she  said  at  last. 

"  Yes,  I  am,"  Peter  said,  "  a  bit  depressed." 

"  I  know.  I'm  often  that  way  myself.  We  all  catch 
it.  Come  home  and  have  a  bit  of  supper.  That'll  cheer 
you  up." 

"  No,  thanks,"  said  Peter  politely.  "  I  must  get  back 
to  my  own  place  in  a  minute." 

"  Well,"  said  the  lady.  "  Please  yourself,  and  I'll  have 
another  drink  if  you  don't  very  much  mind." 

It  was  whilst  he  was  ordering  another  drink  that  he  came 
out  of  his  own  thoughts  and  considered  her. 

"  That's  right,"  she  said  smiling,  "  have  a  good  look. 
My  name's  Rose  Bennett.  Here's  my  card.  Perhaps  you'd 
like  to  come  and  have  tea  with  me  one  day." 

She  gave  him  a  very  dirty  card  on  which  was  written 
"  Miss   Rose  Bennett,  4  Annton   Street,  Portland  Place." 

"  You're  Cornish,"  he  suddenly  said,  looking  at  her. 

She  moved  her  soiled  gloves  up  and  down  the  little  ta- 
ble— "  Well,  what  if  I  am.^  "  she  said  defiantly,  not  looking 
at  him. 

"  I  knew  it,"  said  Peter  triumphantly,  "  the  way  you 
rolled  your  r's — " 

"  Well,  chuck  it,  dear,"  said  Miss  Bennett,  "  and  let's 
talk  sense.     What's  Cornwall  got  to  do  with  us  anyhow  ?  " 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  411 

**  I'm  Cornish  too/*  said  Peter,  "  it's  got  a  good  deal  to 
do  with  us.  You  needn't  tell  me  of  course — ^but  what  part 
do  you  come  from  ?  " 

Still  sullenly  she  said :  "  Almost  forgotten  the  name  of 
it,  so  long  ago.  You  wouldn't  know  it  anyway,  it's  such  a 
little  place.     They  called  it  Portergwarra — " 

"  I  know,"  cried  Peter,  "  near  the  Land's  End.  Of 
course  I  know  it.  There  are  holes  in  the  rocks  that  they 
lift  the  boats  through.  There's  a  post-box  on  the  wall. 
I've  walked  there  many  a  time — " 

"Well,  stow  it,  old  man,"  Miss  Bennett  answered  de- 
cisively. "  I'm  not  thinking  of  that  place  any  more  and  I 
don't  suppose  they've  thought  of  me  since.  Why,  it's 
years — •" 

She  broke  off  and  began  hurriedly  to  drink.  Peter's  eyes 
sought  her  eyes — his  eyes  were  miserable  and  so  were  hers 
— but  her  mouth  was  hard  and  laughing, 

"  It's  funny  talking  of  Cornwall,"  she  said  at  last.  "  No 
one's  spoken  of  the  place  since  I  came  up  here.  But  it's 
all  right,  I  tell  you — quite  all  right.  You  take  it  from  me, 
chucky.  I  enjoy  my  life — have  a  jolly  time.  There's  dis- 
advantages in  every  profession,  and  when  you've  got  a  bit 
of  a  cold  as  I  have  now  why — " 

She  stopped.  Her  eyes  sought  Peter's.  He  saw  that 
she  was  nearly  crying. 

"  Talking  of  Cornwall  and  all  that,"  she  muttered,  "  silly 
rot!     I'm  tired — I'm  going  home." 

He  paid  for  the  drinks  and  got  a  hansom. 

At  that  moment  as  he  stood  looking  over  the  horse  into 
the  dimly-lit  obscurities  of  the  Square  he  thought  with  a 
sudden  beating  of  the  heart  that  he  recognised  Cardillac 
looking  at  him  from  the  doorway  of  a  neighbouring  res- 
taurant. Then  the  figure  was  gone.  He  had  got  Cardillac 
on  the  brain !  Nevertheless  the  suggestion  made  him  sud- 
denly conscious  of  poor  Miss  Bennett's  enormous  hat,  her 
rouge,  her  soiled  finery  that  allowed  no  question  as  to  her 
position  in  the  world. 

Rather  hurriedly  he  asked  her  to  get  into  the  cab. 

"  Come  that  far — "  she  said. 

He  got  in  with  her  and  she  took  off  one  glove  and  he 
held  her  hand  and  they  didn't  speak  all  the  way. 


412  FORTITUDE 

When  the  hansom  stopped  at  last  he  got  down,  helped 
her  out  and  for  a  moment  longer  held  her  hand. 

"  We're  both  pretty  unhappy,"  he  said.  "  Things  have 
been  going  wrong  with  me  too.  But'  think  of  Cornwall 
sometimes  and  remember  there's  some  one  else  thinking 
of  it." 

"  You're  a  funny  kid,"  she  said,  looking  at  him,  "  senti- 
mental, I  don't  think !  " 

But  it  was  her  eyes — tired  and  regretful  that  said  good- 
bye. 

She  let  herself  in  and  the  door  closed  behind  her. 

He  turned  and  walked  the  streets;  it  was  three  o'clock 
before  he  reached  his  home. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
"MORTIMER  STANT" 


NEXT  morning  Peter  went  round  to  Cardillac's  flat  and 
made  his  apologies.     Cardillac  accepted  them  at  once 
with  the  frankest  expressions  of  friendship. 

"  My  dear  old  Peter,  of  course/'  he  said,  taking  botti 
Peter's  hands  in  his,  "  I  was  horribly  blunt  and  unpleasant 
about  the  whole  thing.  I  didn't  mean  half  what  I  said,  but 
the  fact  is  that  you  got  angry  and  then  I  suppose  I  got 
angry — and  then  we  both  said  more  than  we  meant." 

"  No,"  said  Peter  slowly,  "  for  you  were  quite  right.  I 
have  been  selfish  and  morbid.  I  see  it  all  quite  clearly. 
I'm  going  to  be  very  different  now,  Cards,  old  man." 

Cards'  flat  was  splendid — everything  in  it  from  its  grey 
Ascot  trouserings  kind  of  wall  paper  to  its  beautiful  old 
chairs  and  its  beautiful  old  china  was  of  the  very  best — 
and  Cards  himself,  in  a  dark  blue  suit  with  a  black  tie  and 
a  white  pearl  and  white  spats  on  his  shining  gleaming  shoes, 
just  ready  to  go  out  and  startle  Piccadilly  was  of  the  very 
best.     He  had  never,  Peter  thought,  looked  so  handsome. 

At  the  door  Cards  put  a  hand  on  Peter's  shoulder. 

"Get  in  late  this  morning,  Peter?" 

"  Why?  "  said  Peter,  turning  round. 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  Cards  regarded  him,  smiling.  "  I'll  see 
you  to-night  at  the  Lesters.     Until  then,  old  man — " 

Neither  Mrs.  Rossiter  nor  Clare  made  any  allusion  to  the 
quarrel  but  it  had  nevertheless,  Peter  felt,  made  recon- 
ciliation all  the  more  difficult.  Mrs.  Rossiter  now  seemed 
to  imply  in  her  additional  kindnesses  to  Cardillac  that  she 
felt  for  him  deeply  and  was  sorry  that  he,  too,  should  have 
been  made  to  suff'er  under  Peter's  bear-like  nature. 

There  was  even  an  implied  atmosphere  of  alliance  in  the 
attitude  of  the  three  to  Peter,  an  alliance  fostered  and 
cemented  by  Mrs.  Rossiter  and  spread  by  her,  up  and  down, 
in  and  out  about  the  house. 

413 


414  FORTITUDE 

It  was  obvious  indeed  now  that  Mrs.  Rossiter  was,  never 
again,  under  any  terms,  to  be  won  over.  She  had  decided 
in  her  own  slow  mind  that  Peter  was  an  objectionable  per- 
son, that  he  neglected  his  wife,  quarrelled  with  his  best 
friends  and  refused  to  fulfil  the  career  that  he  had  prom- 
ised to  fulfil.  She  saw  herself  now  in  the  role  of  pro- 
tectress of  her  daughter,  and  that  role  she  would  play  to  the 
very  end.  Clare  must,  at  all  costs,  be  happy  and,  in  spite 
of  her  odious  husband,  happy  she  should  be. 

Peter  discerned  Mrs.  Rossiter's  state  of  mind  on  the 
whole  clearly  enough,  but  with  regard  to  Clare  he  was  en- 
tirely in  the  dark.  He  devoted  his  days  now  to  her  serv- 
ice. He  studied  her  every  want,  was  ready  to  abandon  his 
work  at  any  moment  to  be  with  her,  and  was  careful  also 
to  avoid  too  great  a  pestering  of  her  with  attentions. 

"  I  know  women  hate  that,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  if  you 
go  down  on  your  knees  to  them  and  hang  around  them  they 
simply  can't  stand  it.     I  won't  show  her  that  I  care." 

And  he  cared,  poor  fellow,  as  he  had  never  cared  for  her 
before  during  their  married  life.  The  love  that  he  had  had 
for  Stephen  he  would  now  give  to  Stephen's  mother  would 
she  but  let  him. 

But  it  was  a  difficult  business.  When  Mrs.  Rossiter  was 
present  he  could  do  nothing  right.  If  he  were  silent  she 
would  talk  to  Clare  about  people  being  morose;  and  what  a 
pity  it  was  that  some  people  didn't  think  of  other  people 
a  little  instead  of  being  miserable  about  things  for  which 
they  had  nobody  to  thank  but  themselves,  and  if  he  tried 
to  be  light-hearted  and  amusing  Mrs.  Rossiter  bore  with  his 
humour  in  so  patient  and  self-denying  a  spirit  that  his  ef- 
forts failed  lamentably  and  only  made  the  situation  worse 
than  it  had  been  before. 

Clare  seemed  to  be  now  entirely  in  her  mother's  hands; 
she  put  her  mother's  large  flat  body  between  herself  and 
Peter  and,  through  that,  they  were  compelled  to  talk. 

Peter  also  knew  now  that  Clare  was  exceedingly  uncom- 
fortable in  his  presence — it  was  almost  as  though  she  had 
something  to  conceal.  On  several  occasions  he  had  noticed 
jthat  his  sudden  entrance  into  a  room  had  confused  her; 
once  he  had  caught  her  hurriedly  pushing  a  letter  out  of 
sight.     She  vras  now  strangely  timid  when  he  was  there; 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  415 

sometimes  with  a  sudden  furious  beating  of  the  heart  he 
fancied  that  she  was  coming  back  to  him  again  because 
she  would  make  little  half  movements  towards  him  and  then 
draw  back.     Once  he  found  her  crying. 

The  impulse  to  beg  her  to  confide  in  him  was  almost 
stronger  than  he  could  resist,  and  yet  he  was  terrified  lest 
by  some  sudden  move  he  should  frighten  her  and  drive 
her  back  and  so  lose  the  little  ground  that  he  had  gained. 
The  strangest  thing  of  all  was  that  Mrs.  Rossiter  herself 
did  not  know  what  Clare's  trouble  was.  She,  of  course, 
put  it  all  down  to  Peter,  but  she  could  accuse  him  of  nothing 
specific.     Clare  had  not  confided  in  her. 

Did  Cards  know.f"  Peter  sudddenly  asked  himself  with  a 
strange  pang  of  jealousy.  That  he  should  be  jealous  of 
Cards,  the  most  splendid,  most  honourable  fellow  in  the 
world!  That,  of  course,  was  absurd.  And  yet  they  were 
together  so  often,  and  it  was  with  Jerry  Cardillac  alone  that 
Clare  seemed  now  at  ease. 

But  Peter  put  all  such  thoughts  at  once  away  from  him. 
Had  it  been  any  other  man  but  Cards  he  might  have  won- 
dered .  .  .  but  he  would  trust  Cards  alone  with  his  wife 
in  the  wilderness  and  know  that  no  ill  could  come  of  it. 
With  other  women  Cards  might  have  few  scruples — Peter 
had  heard  such  stories — ^but  with  Peter's  wife,  no. 

Peter  wondered  whether  perhaps  Clare  did  not  miss 
young  Stephen  more  than  they  knew!  Oh,  if  that  were 
the  reason  how  he  could  take  her  into  his  arms  and  comfort 
her  and  love  her!  Poor  little  Clare  .  .  .  the  time  would 
come  when  she  would  show  him  that  she  wanted  him. 

Meanwhile  the  months  passed,  the  proofs  of  "  Mortimer 
Stant  "  had  been  corrected  and  the  book  was  about  to  appear. 
To  Peter  now  everything  seemed  to  hang  upon  this  event. 
It  became  with  him,  during  the  weeks  before  its  appearance, 
a  monomania.  If  this  book  were  a  success  why  then  Clare 
and  Mrs.  Rossiter  and  all  of  them  would  come  round  to 
him.  It  was  the  third  book  which  was  always  so  decisive, 
and  there  was  ground  to  recover  after  the  comparative  fail- 
ure of  the  second  novel.  As  he  corrected  the  proofs  he 
persuaded  himself  that  "  Mortimer  Stant "  wasn't,  after  all, 
so  bad.  It  had  been  ambitious  of  him,  of  course,  to  write 
about  the  emotions  and  experiences  of  a  man  of  forty  and 


416  FORTITUDE 

there  was  perhaps  rather  an  overloaded  and  crude  attempt 
at  atmosphere,  but  there  was  life  in  the  book.  It  had,  he 
thought,  more  swing  in  the  telling  of  it  than  the  other  two. 

It  is  possible,  when  one  is  correcting  proofs  to  persuade 
oneself  of  anything.  The  book  appeared  and  was,  from 
the  first  moment,  loaded  with  mishap.  On  the  day  of  pub- 
lication there  was  that  terrible  fire  at  the  Casino  theatre — 
people  talked  of  nothing  else  for  a  fortnight.  Moreover 
by  an  unlucky  chance  young  Rondel's  novel,  "  The  Preci- 
pice," was  published  on  the  very  same  day,  and  as  the 
precipice  was  a  novel  one  and  there  were  no  less  than  three 
yoimg  ladies  prepared  to  fall  over  it  at  the  same  moment,  it 
of  course  commanded  instant  attention.  It  was  incidentally 
written  with  an  admirable  sense  of  style  and  a  keen  sense 
of  character. 

But  Peter  was  now  in  a  fever  that  saw  an  enemy  round 
every  corner.  The  English  News  Supplement  only  gave 
him  a  line : — "  '  Mortimer  Stant.'  A  new  novel  by  the  au- 
thor of  '  Reuben  Hallard,'  depicting  agreeably  enough  the 
amorous  adventures  of  a  stockbroker  of  middle-age."  To 
this  had  all  his  fine  dreams,  his  moments  of  exultation,  his 
fevered  inspiration  come !  He  searched  the  London  book- 
sellers but  could  find  no  traces  of  "  Mortimer  Stant  "  at  any 
of  them.  His  publishers  told  him  that  it  was  only  the 
libraries  that  bought  any  fiction,  with  the  exception  of  vol- 
umes by  certain  popular  authors — and  yet  he  saw  at  these 
booksellers  novels  by  numbers  of  people  who  could  not  lay 
claim  to  the  success  that  "  Reuben  Hallard  "  had  secured 
for  its  writer. 

The  reviews  came  in  slowly  and,  excepting  for  the  smaller 
provincial  papers,  treated  him  with  an  indifference  that  was 
worse  than  neglect.  "  This  interesting  novel  by  Mr.  West- 
cott  " — "  A  pleasant  tale  of  country  life  by  the  author  of 
*  Reuben  Hallard.'  Will  please  those  who  like  a  quiet  agree- 
able book  without  too  much  incident." 

One  London  weekly  review — a  paper  of  considerable  im- 
portance— took  him  severely  to  task,  pointed  out  a  number 
of  incoherences  of  fact,  commented  on  carelessness  of  style 
and  finally  advised  Mr.  Wcstcott,  "if  he  is  ever  to  write  a 
book  of  real  importance  to  work  with  greater  care  and  to 
be  less  easily  contented  with  a  superficial  facility." 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  417 

But  worse  than  these  were  the  opinions  of  his  friends. 
Henry  Galleon  was  indeed  gone,  but  there  were  a  few — 
Mrs.  Launce,  Alfred  Lester,  William  Trent,  Alfred  Hext — 
who  had  taken  a  real  and  encouraging  interest  in  him  from 
the  beginning.  They  took  him  seriously  enough  to  tell  him 
the  truth,  and  tell  him  the  truth  they  did.  Dear  Mrs. 
Launce,  who  couldn't  bear  to  hurt  anybody  and  saw  perhaps 
that  he  was  taking  the  book  a  great  deal  more  hardly  than 
he  had  taken  the  others,  veiled  it  as  well  as  she  could: — "  I 
do  think  it's  got  splendid  things  in  it,  Peter  dear — splendid 
things.  That  bit  about  the  swimming  and  the  character  of 
Mrs.  Mumps.  But  it  doesn't  hang  together.  There's  a 
great  deal  of  repetition.  It's  as  though  you'd  written  it 
with  your  mind  on  something  else  all  the  time." 

And  so  he  had — oh!  so  he  had!  What  cruel  irony  that 
because  his  mind  was  set  to  winning  Clare  back  to  him 
the  chief  means  for  gaining  her  should  be  ruined  by  his 
very  care   for  her. 

What  to  do  when  all  the  things  of  life — the  bustle  and 
hurry,  the  marriages  and  births  and  deaths — came  in  be- 
tween him  and  his  work  so  that  he  could  scarcely  see  it, 
so  many  things  obscured  the  way.  Poor  Mortimer!  Lost 
indeed  behind  a  shifting,  whirring  cloud  of  real  life — never 
to  emerge,  poor  man,  into  anything  better  than  a  middle- 
aged  clothes'  prop. 

For  six  weeks  the  book  lingered  in  the  advertisements. 
A  second  edition,  composed  for  the  most  part  of  an  edition 
for  America,  was  announced,  there  were  a  belated  review 
or  two  .  .  .  and  then  the  end.  The  end  of  two  years' 
hopes,  ambitions,  struggles,  sweat  and  tears — and  the  end, 
too,  of  how  much  else? 

From  the  beginning,  so  far  back  as  he  could  remember, 
he  had  believed  that  he  would  one  day  write  great  books; 
had  believed  it  from  no  conceit  in  him  but  simply  because 
he  clung  so  tenaciously  to  ambition  that  it  had  become, 
again  and  again,  almost  realised  in  the  intensity  of  his 
dreams  of  it.  He  had  known  that  this  achievement  of  his 
would  take  a  long  time,  that  he  must  meet  with  many  re- 
buffs, that  he  must  starve  and  despair  and  be  born  again, 
but,  never  at  any  moment,  until  now,  had  he,  in  his  heart  of 
hearts^i  doubted  that  that  great  book  was  in  front  of  him. 


418  FORTITUDE 

He  had  seen  his  work,  in  his  dreams,  derided,  flouted, 
misunderstood.  That  was  the  way  with  most  good  work, 
but  what  he  had  never  seen  was  its  acceptance  amongst  the 
ranks  of  the  "  Pretty  Good,"  its  place  given  it  beside  that 
rising  and  falling  tide  of  fiction  that  covered  every  year  the 
greedy  rocks  of  the  circulating  libraries  and  ebbed  out  again 
leaving  no  trace  behind  it. 

Now,  after  the  failure  of  "  Mortimer  Stant "  for  the  first 
time,  this  awful  question — "  What  if,  after  all,  you  should 
be  an  Ordinary  Creature?  What  if  you  are  no  better  than 
that  army  who  fights  happily,  contentedly,  with  mediocrity 
for  its  daily  bread  and  butter .''  That  army,  upon  whose 
serried  ranks  you  have  perhaps,  unconsciously,  but  never- 
theless with  pity,  looked  down?  .  .  .  What  if  you  are  never 
to  write  a  word  that  will  be  remembered,  never  even  to 
cause  a  decent  attention,  amongst  your  own  generation  ?  " 

What  if  after  all  this  stir  and  fluster,  this  pain  and 
agony  and  striving,  there  should  be  nothing  exceptional 
about  Peter?     W^hat  rock  to  stand  on  then? 

He  had  never,  perhaps,  analysed  his  feelings  about  it 
all.  He  had  certainly  ne\-er  thought  himself  an  excep>- 
tional  person  .  .  .  but  always  in  his  heart  there  had  been 
that  belief  that,  one  day,  he  would  write  an  exceptional  book. 

He  was  very  young,  not  yet  thirty,  but  he  had  had  his 
chance.  It  seemed  to  him,  in  these  weeks  following  the 
death  of  "  Mortimer  Stant,"  that  his  career  was  already  over. 
There  was  also  the  question  of  ways  and  means.  Just 
enough  to  live  on  with  the  reviewing  and  a  column  for  an 
American  paf>er  and  Clare's  income,  but  if  the  books  were 
all  of  them  to  fail  as  this  one  had  failed — why  then  it  was 
a  dreary  future  for  them  both. 

In  fact  there  were  now,  at  his  feet,  pits  of  so  dismal  and 
impenetrable  a  blackness  that  he  refused  to  look  down,  but 
clung  rather  to  his  determination  to  make  all  things  right 
with  Clare  again,  and  then  things  would  come  round. 

If  that  failed  him — why  then,  old  black-faced  father  in 
Scaw  House  M-ith  your  drunken  cook  and  your  company  of 
ghosts,  you  shall  have  your  merry  way! 

n 
Henry   Galleon  was  dead.     Mrs.   Launce  was,  unfortu- 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  419 

nately^  during  the  whole  of  this  period  of  Peter's  career, 
away  in  the  country,  being  burdened  with  work,  children 
and  ill-health.     He  turned  then  once  again  to  Bobby. 

He  had  seen  very  little  of  Bobby  and  Alice  Galleon 
lately;  he  was  as  fond  of  Bobby  as  he  had  ever  been,  but 
Bobby  had  always  been  a  background,  some  one  who  was 
there,  one  liked  to  think,  if  one  wanted  him — but  if  there 
was  any  one  more  exciting,  then  Bobby  vanished.  Lately 
— for  quite  a  long  time  now — there  had  been  Cardillac — 
and  somehow  Cards  and  Bobby  did  not  get  on  together  and 
it  was  impossible  to  have  them  both  at  the  same  time.  But 
now  Peter  turned  to  Bobby  with  the  eagerness  of  a  return 
to  some  comfortable  old  arm-chair  after  the  brilliant  new 
furniture  of  a  friend's  palace.  Bobby  was  there  waiting 
for  him.  It  is  not  to  be  denied  that  the  occasional  nature 
of  Peter's  appearances  had  hurt  them  both — wounded  Bobby 
and  made  Alice  angry. 

"  He's  given  us  up,  Bobby,  now  that  he's  found  so  many 
new  friends.  I  shouldn't  have  expected  him  to  do  that. 
I'm  disappointed." 

But  Bobby  nodded  his  head.  "  The  boy's  all  right,"  he 
said,  "  he's  just  trying  to  forget  young  Stephen  and  he  for- 
gets things  better  in  Cardillac's  company  than  he  does  in 
mine — I'm  not  lively  enough  for  that  kind  of  thing.  He'll 
come  back — " 

But,  at  the  same  time,  Bobby  was  anxious.  Things  were 
wrong  up  there  at  The  Roundabout,  very  wrong.  He  knew 
Clare  and  Cards  and  Peter  and  Mrs.  Rossiter,  in  all  prob- 
ability better  than  any  one  alive  knew  them — and  he  was  no 
fool. 

Then  Peter  came  back  to  him  and  was  received  as  though 
he  had  never  left  him;  and  Alice,  who  had  intended  to  tell 
Mr.  Peter  what  she  thought  of  his  disloyalty,  had  no  word 
to  say  when  she  saw  his  white  drawn  face  and  his  tired 
eyes. 

"  There's  something  awfully  wrong  up  there,"  said  Alice 
to  Bobby  that  night.     "  Bobby,  look  after  him." 

But  Bobby  who  had  heard  by  that  time  what  Peter  had 
to   say   shut   his   mouth  tight.     Then   at  last: 

"  Our  friend  Cardillac  has  a  good  deal  to  answer  for," 
and  left  Alice  to  make  what  she  could  out  of  it. 


420  FORTITUDE 

Meanwhile  up  in  Bobby's  dusty  old  room,  called  by  cour- 
tesy "  The  Study  "  but  having  little  evidence  of  literature 
about  it  save  an  edition  of  ^^^lyte-Melville  and  a  miscel- 
laneous collection  of  Yellow-backs,  Peter  had  poured  out 
his  soul: 

"  Bobby,  I  feel  as  though  I'd  just  been  set  up  with  my 
back  against  the  wall  for  every  one  to  make  shies  at. 
Everything's  going  wrong — everything.  The  ground's 
crumbling  from  under  my  feet.  First  it's  young  Stephen, 
then  it's  Clare,  then  my  book  fails  (don't  let's  humbug — 
you  know  it's  an  utter  failure)  then  I  quarrel  with  Cards, 
then  that  damned  woman — "  he  stopped  at  the  thought  of 
Mrs.  Rossiter  and  drove  his  hands  together.  Then  he  went 
on  more  quietly.  "  It's  like  fighting  in  a  fog,  Bobby. 
There's  the  thing  I  want  somewhere,  just  beside  me — I  want 
Clare,  Clare  as  she  used  to  be  when  we  were  first  married 
— but  I  can't  get  at  her  and  yet,  through  it  all,  I  don't 
know  what  it  is  that  stops  me. 

"  I  know  I  hadn't  thought  of  her  enough — with  the  book 
and  Stephen  and  everything.  Cards  told  me  that  pretty 
straight — but  now  I've  seen  all  that  and  I'm  ready  to  do 
anything — anything  if  she'll  only  love  me  again." 

"  Go  directly  to  her  and  tell  her,"  said  Bobby ;  "  have 
it  all  out  in  the  open  with  her." 

"That's  just  it,"  Peter  answered,  "I  never  seem  to  get 
her  alone.  There's  always  either  her  mother  or  Cards 
there.  Cards  sees  her  alone  much  more  than  I  do,  but,  of 
course,  she  likes  his  company  better  than  mine  just  now. 
I'm  such  a  gloomy  beggar — " 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Bobby  roughly.  "  You  believe  any- 
thing that  any  one  tells  you.  They  tell  you  that  you're 
gloomy  and  depressing  and  so  you  think  you  are.  They 
didn't  find  you  gloomy  at  Brockett's  did  they?  And  Alice 
and  I  have  never  found  you  depressing.  Don't  listen  to 
that  woman.  Clare's  always  been  under  her  influence  and 
it's  for  you  to  take  her  out  of  it — not  to  lie  down  quietly 
and  say  she's  too  much  for  you — but  there's  another 
thing,"  he  added  slowly  and  awkwardly,  after  a  moment's 
pause. 

"What's  that?"  asked  Peter. 

"Well— Cards,"    said    Bobby   at   last     "Oh!     I    know 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  421 

you'll  say  I  hate  him.  But  I  don't.  I  don't  hate  him. 
I've  always  known  him  for  what  he  was — in  those  days  at 
Dawson's  when  if  you  flattered  him  he  was  kind,  and  if 
you  didn't  he  was  contemptuous.  At  Cambridge  it  was  the 
same.  There  was  only  one  fellow  there  I  ever  saw  him 
knock  under  to — a  man  called  Dune — and  he  was  out  and 
away  exceptional  anyhow,  at  games  and  work  and  every- 
thing. Now  he  made  Cards  into  a  decent  fellow  for  the 
time  being,  and  if  he'd  had  the  running  of  him  he  might 
have  turned  all  that  brilliance  into  something  worth  having. 

"  But  he  vanished  and  Cards  has  never  owned  his  master 
since.  Everything  was  there,  ready  in  him,  to  be  turned 
one  way  or  the  other,  and  after  he  left  Cambridge  there 
was  his  silly  mother  and  a  sillier  London  waiting  to  finish 
him — now  he's  nothing  but  Vanity  and  Fascination — and 
soon  there'll  be  nothing  but  Vanity." 

"You're  unjust  to  him,  Bobby,  you  always  have  been." 

"  Well,  perhaps  I  am.  He's  always  treated  me  with  such 
undisguised  contempt  that  it's  only  human  that  I  should  be 
a  little  prejudiced.  But  that's  neither  here  nor  there — 
what  is  the  point,  Peter,  is  that  he's  too  much  up  at  your 
place.  Too  much  for  his  own  good,  too  much  for  yours, 
and — too  much  for — Clare's." 

"Bobby!" 

"  Oh  yes — I  know  I'm  saying  a  serious  thing — ^but  you 
asked  me  for  my  advice  and  I  give  it.  I  don't  say  that 
Cards  means  any  harm  but  people  will  talk  and  it  wouldn't 
do  you  any  damage  in  Clare's  eyes  either,  Peter,  if  you 
were  to  stand  up  to  him  a  little." 

Peter  smiled.  "  Dear  old  Bobby !  If  any  one  else  in 
the  world  had  said  such  a  thing  of  course  I  should  have 
been  most  awfully  angry,  but  I've  always  known  how  un- 
fair you  were  about  Cards.  You  never  liked  him,  even  in 
the  Dawson  days.  You  just  don't  suit  one  another.  But 
I  tell  you,  Bobby,  that  I'd  trust  Cards  more  than  I'd  trust 
any  one  in  the  world.  Of  course  Clare  likes  to  be  with 
him  and  of  course  he  likes  to  be  with  her.  They  suit  one 
another  exactly.  Why,  he's  splendid!  The  other  day 
when  I'd  been  a  perfect  beast — losing  my  temper  like  a 
boy  of  ten — you  should  have  heard  the  way  he  took  it. 
One  day,  Bobby,  you'll  see  how  splendid  he  is." 


422  FORTITUDE 

Bobby  said  no  more. 

Peter  went  on  again :  "  No,  it's  my  mother-in-law's  done 
the  damage.  You're  right,  the  thing  to  do  is  to  get  Clare 
alone  and  have  it  right  out  with  her.  We'll  clear  the  mists 
away." 

Bobby  said:  "You  know  Peter,  both  Alice  and  I  would 
do  anything  in  the  world   to  make  you  happy — anything." 

Peter   gripped   his   hand. 

"  I  know  you  would.  If  I  could  forget  young  Stephen," 
he  caught  his  breath — "  Bobby,  I  see  him  ever^-where,  all 
the  time.  I  lie  awake  hours  at  night  thinking  about  him. 
I  see  him  in  my  sleep,  see  him  sometimes  grown-up — splen- 
did, famous.  .  .  .  Sometimes  I  think  he  comes  back.  I 
can  see  him,  lying  on  his  back  and  looking  up  at  the  ceiling, 
and  I  say  to  myself,  *  Now  if  you  don't  move  he'll  stay 
there '  .  .  .  and  then  I  move  and  he's  gone.  And  I 
haven't  any  one  to  talk  about  him  to.  I  never  know 
whether  Clare  thinks  of  him  or  not.  He  was  so  splendid, 
Bobby,  so  strong.  And  he  loved  me  in  the  most  extraor- 
dinary way.  We'd  have  been  tremendous  pals  if  he'd 
lived. 

"  I  could  have  stood  anything  if  I'd  been  able  to  see  him 
growing  up,  had  him  to  care  about.  ...  I'm  so  lonely, 
Bobby — and  if  I  don't  make  Clare  come  back  to  me,  now 
that  the  book's  failed,  I — I — I'll  go  back  to  Scaw  House 
and  just  drink  myself  to  the  devil  there  with  my  old  father; 
he'll  be  glad  enough." 

"  You  once  told  me,"  Bobby  said,  "  about  an  old  man  in 
your  place  when  you  were  a  kid,  who  said  once,  '  It  isn't  / 
life  that  matters  but  the  courage  you  bring  to  it — '     Well, 
that's  what  you're  proving  now,  Peter." 

"  Yes,  but  why  me?  I've  had  a  bad  time  all  my  life — 
always  been  knocked  about  and  cursed  and  kicked.  Why 
should  it  go  on  all  the  time — all  the  time?  " 

"  Because  They  think  you're  worth  it,  I  suppose,"  said 
Bobby. 

m 

And  the  result  of  that  conversation  was  that,  on  that 
very  night  Peter  made  his  appeal.  They  had  had  a  silent 
evening   (Mrs.   Rossiter  was  staying  in  the  bouse  at  this 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  423 

time),  and  at  last  they  all  had  gone  up^o  bed.  Peter  stayed 
for  a  moment  in  his  dressing-room,  seeing  his  white  face 
in  the  looking-glass,  hearing  the  beating  of  his  heart  and 
then  with  a  hand  that  strangely  trembled,  knocked  on 
Clare's  door. 

Her  voice  sounded  frightened,  he  thought,  as  she  called 
to  him  to  come  in.  Indeed,  as  he  entered  she  folded  a 
letter  that  she  had  been  reading,  and  put  it  in  a  drawer  in 
the  dressing-table  at  which  she  was  sitting. 

It  was  only  seldom  now  that  he  disturbed  her  in  that 
room.  She  had  turned  on  the  electric  light  over  her  dress- 
ing-table; the  rest  of  the  room  was  in  darkness.  She 
seemed  to  Peter  very  fragile  and  tiny  as  she  sat  there  in 
her  black  evening  frock,  her  breast  rising  and  falling  as 
though  something  had  suddenly  frightened  her,  her  eyes 
wide  and  startled.  He  felt  a  gross,  coarse  brute  as  he  stum- 
bled, coming  across  the  dark  floor  to  her. 

"  My  God,"  he  cried  in  his  heart,  "  put  everything  rigtt 
now — let  this  make  everything  right." 

His  big  square  body  flung  huge  fantastic  shadow.,  tp,^ 
the  wall,  but  he  looked,  as  he  faced  her,  like  a  boy  who  had 
come  to  his  master  to  confess  some  crime. 

Apparently  she  was  reassured  now,  for  she  took  off  her 
necklace  and  moved  about  the  things  on  her  table  as  though 
to  show  him  that  she  was  on  the  point  of  undressing. 

"Well,  Peter,  what  is  it?"  she  said. 

"I've  come — Clare — just  a  moment — I  want  a  talk." 

"But  it's  late,  I'm  tired — won't  some  other  time  do.''" 

"  No,   I  want  it  now." 

"What  is   it.?" 

She  was  looking  into  the  glass  as  she  spoke  to  him. 

He  pulled  a  little  chair  over  to  her  and  sat  forward  so 
that  his  knees  nearly  touched  her  thin  black  dress.  He 
put  out  his  big  hand  and  caught  one  of  her  little  ones;  he 
thought  for  a  moment  that  she  was  going  to  resist — then 
it  lay  there  cold  as  ice. 

"  Clare — darling — look  here,  everything's  been  wrong 
with  both  of  us — for  ages.  And  I've  come — I've  come — 
because  I  know  it's  been  very  largely  my  fault.  And  I've 
come  to  say  that  everything  will  be  different  now  and  I 
want  you  to  let  things — be — as  they  were  before — " 


4«4  FORTITUDE 

For  a  moment  he  fancied  that  he  saw  a  light  leap  into 
her  eyes;  he  felt  her  hand  tremble  for  a  moment  in  his. 
Then  the  expression  was  gone. 

"  How  do  you  mean.-*  "  she  said,  still  looking  into  the 
glass.  "What  do  you  mean,  Peter.''  I  haven't  noticed 
anything  different." 

"  Oh  yes,  you  have.  You  know  that — ever  since  Stephen 
died  and  before  that  really — you've  avoided  me.  You'd 
rather  be  without  me  than  with  me.  You've  all  thought 
me  selfish  and  glum  and  so  I  suppose  I  was.  But  I  missed 
. — the  kid — a  lot."  Again  Peter  felt  her  hand  tremble. 
He  pressed  it.  Then  he  went  on,  leaning  more  toward  her 
now  and  putting  an  arm  out  to  touch  her  dress. 

"  Clare — it's  been  like  a  fog  all  these  weeks — we've 
never  had  it  out,  we've  never  talked  about  it,  but  you've 
been  disappointed  in  me.  You  thought  I  was  going  to  write 
great  books  and  I  haven't — and  then  your  mother — and  I 
— don't  get  on.  And  then  I  suppose  I'm  stupid  in  society 
— I  can't  talk  a  lot  to  any  one  who  comes  along  as  all  you 
people  can.  I've  been  brought  up  differently  and — and 
— I  know  you  don't  like  to  think  about  that  either,  and  so 
I'll  never  bring  my  old  friends  into  the  house  and  I'll  see 
that  I'm  not  such  a  gawk  at  your  parties — " 

He  paused  for  a  moment;  she  was  looking  down  now  and 
he  couldn't  see  her  eyes.  He  bent  forward  more  closely 
— his  arm  caught  her  waist — his  hand  crushed  hers — 

She  tried  desperately  to  pull  herself  together  to  say  some- 
thing— 

"  No — there's  nothing.  Well,  if  there  is — Of  course  I 
suppose  it  happens  to  all  married  people — " 

"  ^V^lat   happens.''" 

"  Why,  they  find  one  another  out  a  little.  Things  aren't 
quite  as  they  thought  they'd  be.  That  must  happen  al- 
ways." 

"  But  tell  me — tell  me  the  things  in  me  that  have  dis- 
appointed you  and  {hen  I  can  alter — " 

"  Well — it's  a  little  as  you  say.  You  have  been  rather 
rude  to  Mother.     And  then — your  quarrel — " 

"  What !     You  mean  with  Cards !  " 

*'  With — Jerry — yes.  And  then,"  her  voice  was  high 
tnd  sharp  now — her  eyes  avoided  his — "  I've  always — been 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  4«5 

happy,  until  I  married.  Things  frighten  me.  You  don't 
understand  me,  Peter,  how  easily  I'm  frightened — ^you  never 
seemed  to  see  that.     Other  people — know." 

"  I've  been  selfish — I — " 

"  Yes,"  she  went  on  still  in  that  high  voice,  "  and  you 
never  consider  me  in  little  things.  And  you  laugh  at  me 
as  though  I  were  stupid.  I  don't  suppose  it's  all  your 
fault.  You  were  brought  up — roughly.  But  you  are 
rough.  '  You  hurt  me  often.  I  can't  bear,"  her  lip  was 
trembling  and  she  was  nearly  crying — "  I  can't  bear  being 
unhappy — " 

"  My  God ! "  cried  Peter,  "  what  a  beast  I  am !  What 
a  brute  I've  been !  " 

"  Yes — and  you  never  seemed  to  think  that  I  minded 
poor  little  Stephen's  death — the  dear  little  thing — of  course 
it  hurt  me  dreadfully — and  you  never  thought  of  me — " 

"  It's  all  going  to  be  different  now.  Love  me,  Clare — • 
love  me  and  it  will  all  come  back.  And  then  if  you'll  only 
love  me  I'll  be  able  to  write  the  most  wonderful  books.  I'll 
be  famous  all  the  world  over — if  you'll  only  love  me,  Clare 
darling — " 

He  dropt  on  to  his  knees  before  her  and  looking  up  at 
her  whispered — "  Clare — darling,  darling — you're  all  that 
I've  got  now — everything  in  the  world.  And  in  return  I'll 
try  to  be  everything  to  you.  I'll  spend  my  life  in  making 
you  happy.  I'll  care  for  only  one  thing  and  that  is  to  be 
your  servant.     Clare — Clare — " 

She  gave  a  little  protesting  cry — "  Peter,  Peter — don't 
— I — I — can't — "  and  then  in  a  shuddering  whisper — 
"  Peter — I'm  not  good  enough — I  don't  love  you  now — I — 
can't—" 

But  he  had  caught  her,  was  holding  her  to  him  now,  with 
both  his  arms  round  her,  pressing  her  against  his  shirt,  hurt- 
ing her — at  last  covering  her  mouth,  her  eyes,  her  cheeks 
with  kisses. 

He  had  not  heard  those  words  now,  in  the  triumph  of 
having  her  back  again,  his  as  she  had  been  on  the  first  day 
of  their  marriage,  did  not  feel  her  body  unresponsive,  her 
hands  cold,  nor  did  he  see  the  appeal,  wild  and  desperate, 
in  her  eyes.  .  .  . 

At  last  he  left  her,  closing,  softly  her  door  between  them. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
PETER  BUYS  A  PRESENT 


PETER  did  not  hesitate  now.  He  shonid  win  Clare 
back  with  his  strong  right  hand  and  he  would  rule 
The  Roundabout  with  a  rod  of  iron.  Ruling  The  Round- 
about meant  ruling  Mrs.  Rossiter  and  he  was  surprised  at 
the  ease  with  which  he  won  his  victory  over  that  lady.  Had 
he  considered  it  more  deeply  that  easy  victory  might  have 
seemed  to  him  ominous. 

At  luncheon  on  the  day  after  his  talk  with  Clare  they 
three  sat  together — Mrs.  Rossiter  silent,  Clare  silent,  Peter 
silent. 

Suddenly  Peter  said:  "Oh  by  the  way,  Clare,  I  tele- 
phoned for  seats  this  morning  for  the  new  thing  at  the 
Criterion.     I  got  two  stalls." 

They  had  not  been  to  the  theatre  together  since  Stephen's 
death. 

Clare  lifted  a  white  face — "  I  don't  think  I — " 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Peter,  smiling  across  at  her — "  you'll 
enjoy  it." 

Mrs.  Rossiter  stroking  her  large  bosom  with  a  flat  white 
band  said,  "  I  don't  think  Clare — " 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Peter  again,  "  it  will  do  her  good." 

Mrs.  Rossiter  smiled.  "  Get  another  stall,  Peter,  and  I 
will  come  too." 

"I'm  afraid,"  said  Peter  very  politely,  "that  it's  too 
late.  The  piece  is  a  thumping  success.  I  was  very  lucky 
to  get  any  seats  at  all." 

And  then  Mrs.  Rossiter  subsided,  absolutely  subsided 
.  .  .  very  strange. 

That  was  not  a  very  happy  evening.  Clare  scarcely 
spoke,  she  answered  him  with  "  Yes  "  and  "  No,"  she  sat 
in  the  stalls  looking  like  a  little  unhappy  ghost.  She  did 
not  in  any  way  repulse  him — she  let  him  take  her  hand 

426 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  427 

coming  home  in  the  cab.  She  shivered  and  he  asked 
whether  she  were  cold  and  she  said,  Yes,  she  thought  that 
she  was.  That  night  he  came  in,  took  her  for  a  moment  in 
his  hands,  kissed  her  very  gently  on  the  lips,  and  said — 

"  Clare,  you're  not  angry  with  me  for  last  night  ?  " 

"  No "  she  answered  him.  Then  she  added  slowly,  as 
though  she  were  repeating  a  part  that  she'd  learnt,  "  Thank 
you  for  taking  me  to  the  play,  Peter.  I  was  rather  tired. 
But  thank  you  for  taking  me." 

He  went  to  bed  thanking  God  for  this  change  in  her. 
"I'll  make  her  love  me  just  as  she  used  to,  those  days  on 
our  honeymoon.     God  bless  her." 

Yes,  Mrs.  Rossiter  was  strangely  altered.  It  all  shows 
what  one  can  do  with  a  woman  when  one  tries.  Her  hostile 
placidity  had  given  place  to  something  almost  pathetic. 
One  would  have  thought,  had  one  not  known  that  lady's 
invariable  assurance  of  movement,  that  she  was  perplexed, 
almost  distressed. 

Peter  was  conscious  that  Clare  was  now  as  silent  with 
her  mother  as  she  was  with  him.  He  perceived  that  Mrs. 
Rossiter  was  disturbed  at  Clare's  reticence.  He  fancied 
that  he  sometimes  interrupted  little  conversations  between 
the  mother  and  the  daughter  the  intention  of  which  was, 
on  Mrs.  Rossiter's  part  at  any  rate,  that  "  Clare  should  tell 
her  something."  There  was  no  doubt  at  all,  that  Mrs.  Ros- 
siter was  anxious.  Even — although  this  seemed  impossible 
— she  appeared  to  be  ready  to  accept  Peter  as  a  friend  and 
ally  now — ^now  after  these  many  weeks  of  hostility.  Surely 
women  are  strange  creatures.  In  any  case,  one  may  ob- 
serve the  yellow  brooch  agitated  now  and  ill  at  ease. 

Very  soon,  too.  Cards  came  to  make  his  farewells — he 
was  going  to  Paris  for  the  whole  of  May. 

"  What !  Won't  you  be  back  for  the  beginning  of  the 
Season  ?  "   cried   Peter  astonished. 

"  No,"  Cards  answered,  laughing.  "  For  once  the  Sea- 
son can  commence  without  me." 

He  was  especially  affectionate  but  seemed  anxious  to  be 
gone.  His  dark  eyes  avoided  Peter's  gaze.  He  didn't 
look  well — a  little  anxious:  and  Cards  was  generally  the 
soul  of  light-hearted  carelessness. 

What  a  splendid  fellow  he  was!     Peter  looked  him  up 


428  FORTITUDE 

and  down  taking  that  same  delight  that  he  had  always 
taken  in  his  distinction,  his  good  looks,  his  ease.  "  He 
ought  to  have  been  born  king  of  somewhere,"  Peter  used 
to  think,  "  he  ought  really — no  wonder  people  spoil  him." 

"  There's  another  thing,"  Peter  said,  "  you're  forget- 
ting Clare's  birthday  next  week.  She'll  be  dreadfully  dis- 
appointed at  your  not  being  here  for  it." 

"  I'll  have  to  remember  it  from  Paris,"  Cards  said. 

"  Well — it's  an  awful  pity  that  you're  going  for  a  whole 
month.  I  don't  know  what  we  shall  do  without  you.  And 
you  cheer  Clare  up — she's  rather  depressed  just  now. 
Thinks  of  the  kid  a  bit,  I  expect." 

"  Well,  I'll  write,"  said  Cards,  and  was  gone. 


Peter  received  at  this  time  a  letter  that  showed  him  that 
he  had,  at  any  rate,  one  friend,  in  the  world  who  believed 
in  him.  It  was  from  James  Maradick  and  it  was  strangely 
encouraging — now  at  this  period  of  yawning  pits  from 
whose  blackness  he  so  resolutely  turned  away. 

It  asked  him  to  go  with  Maradick  as  his  guest  to  some 
Club  dinner.  Then  it  went  on.  ..."  You  know.  West-  , 
cott,  we  don't  meet  as  often  as  we  should.  Like  ships  in  '( 
the  night,  we  signal  every  now  and  again  and  then  pass.  { 
But  I  am  quite  sure  that  we  have  plenty  to  say  to  one  an- 
other. Once  or  twice — you  remember  that  party  when  I 
gassed  about  Cornwall  ? — we  have  nearly  said  it,  but  some- 
thing has  always  prevented.  I  remember  that  you  divided 
the  world  once  in  a  fit  of  youthful  confidence,  into  Ex- 
plorers and  Stay-at-homes.  Well,  those  words  will  do  as 
well  as  any  others  to  describe  the  great  dividing  line.  At 
any  rate,  you're  an  Explorer  and  you're  trying  to  get 
on  terms  with  the  Stay-at-homes,  and  I'm  a  Stay-at-home 
and  I'm  trying  to  get  on  terms  with  the  Explorers  and 
that's  why  we're  both  so  uncomfortable.  The  only  happy 
people,  take  my  word  for  it,  are  those  who  know  the  kind 
of  thing  they  are — Explorers  or  Stay-at-homes,  and  just 
■tick  at  that  and  shut  their  eyes  tight  to  the  other  kind  of 
people — il  n'exitte  pat,  that  other  world.  Those  are  the 
happy  people,  and,  after  all  most  people  arc  like  that     But 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  429 

we,  you  and  I,  are  uncomfortably  conscious  of  the  other 
Party — want  to  know  them,  in  fact,  want  them  to  receive  us. 

"Well,  I'm  getting  on  and  it's  late  days  for  me,  but 
you've  got  all  your  life  before  you  and  will  do  great  things, 
take  my  word  for  it.  Only  don't  be  discouraged  because 
the  Stay-at-homes  don't  come  to  you  all  at  once.  Give  'em 
time — they'll  come.  ..." 

This  seemed  to  Peter,  at  this  moment  of  a  whole  welter 
of  doubt  and  confusion  and  misunderstanding  of  people's 
motives  and  positions,  to  explain  a  great  deal.  Was  that 
the  reason  why  he'd  been  so  happy  in  old  Zachary  Tan's 
shop  years  ago."*  Why  he'd  been  happy  through  all  that 
existence  at  the  bookshop,  those  absurd  unreal  conspirators 
— happy,  yes,  even  when  starving  with  Stephen  in  Bucket 
Lane. 

He  was  then  in  his  right  company — explorers  one  and 
all.  Whereas  here.'' — Now.''  Had  he  ever  been  happy  at 
The  Roundabout  except  during  that  first  year,  and  after- 
wards when  Stephen  came?  And  was  not  that,  too,  the 
explanation  of  young  Stephen's  happiness  upon  the  arrival 
of  Mr.  Zanti  and  Brant?  Did  he  not  recognise  them  for 
what  they  were,  explorers?  He  being  a  young  explorer 
himself. 

On  the  other  side  Mrs.  Rossiter,  Clare,  Cards,  old  Bobby 
who  in  spite  of  his  affection  never  understood  half  the 
things  that  Peter  did  or  said,  the  Galleons,  old  Mrs.  Gal- 
leon and  Percival  and  his  sister?  .  .  .  Had  Henry  Gal- 
leon known  that  dividing-line  and  suffered  under  it  all  his 
life,  and  borne  it  and  perhaps  conquered  it? 

And  Peter  suddenly,  standing  at  his  window  watching 
London  caught  by  the  evening  light,  saw  for  an  instant  his 
work  in  front  of  him  again.  London  with  her  towers,  her 
roofs  and  chimneys — smoke  and  mist  and  haze  weaving  a 
web — and  then  beneath  it,  humming,  buzzing,  turning,  all 
the  lives,  all  the  comedies,  all  the  tragedies — Kings  and 
princes,  guttersnipes  and  duchesses,  politicians  and  news- 
boys, criminals  and  saints — 

Waiting,  that  golden  top,  for  some  hand  to  set  it  hum- 
ming. 

In  that  moment  Peter  Westcott,  aged  twenty-nine,  with 
a  book  just  behind  him  that  had  been   counted  on  every 


480  FORTITUDE 

side  the  most  dismal  of  failures,  saw  himself  the  English 
Balzac,  saw  London  open  like  a  book  at  his  feet,  saw 
heaven  and  all  its  glories  .  .  .  himself  the  one  and  only 
begetter  of  a  thousand  masterpieces ! 

But  the  sun  set — the  towers  and  roofs  and  chimneys  were 
coldly  grey,  a  ragged  wind  rose  through  the  branches  of 
the  orchard,  dark  clouds  hid  the  risen  moon,  newsboys  were 
crying  a  murder  in  Whitechapel. 

"  I  hate  this  house,"  Peter  said,  turning  away  from  the 
window,  into  a  room  crowded  now  with  dusk. 

nx 

It  was  the  first  of  May,  and  the  day  before  Clare's  birth- 
day. It  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful  days  of  the  year, 
with  a  hint  of  summer  in  its  light  and  shadow,  a  shimmer 
of  golden  sun  shaking  through  the  trees  in  the  orchard, 
flung  from  there  on  to  the  windows  of  The  Roundabout,  to 
dance  in  twisting  lines  along  the  floors  and  across  the  walls. 

All  doors  and  windows  seemed  to  be  open;  the  scent  of 
flowers — a  prophecy  of  pinks  and  roses  where  as  yet  there 
were  none — flooded  the  little  Chelsea  streets. 

The  Velasquez  on  the  walls  of  The  Roundabout  danced 
in  her  stiff"  skirts,  looking  down  upon  a  room  bathed  in 
green  and  gold  shadow. 

It  was  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  and  Peter  was 
going  out  to  buy  Clare  a  present.  He  had  seen  a  ruby 
pendant  many  months  ago  in  a  window  in  Bond  Street.  He 
had  thought  of  it  for  Clare  but  he  had  known  that,  with 
young  Stephen's  education  and  the  rest  of  the  kid's  ex- 
penses, he  could  not  dare  to  aff'ord  it  Now  .  .  .  things 
were  difl^erent. 

It  should  sign  and  seal  this  new  order.  .  .  . 

He  came  downstairs.  He  looked  into  the  little  sitting- 
room.  Clare  was  standing  there  by  the  window  looking  at 
the  gay  trees  in  the  orchard.  On  the  opposite  wall  the 
Velasquez  danced.  .  .  . 

She  had  not  heard  him  come  in  and  she  was  standing  by 
the  window  with  her  hands  clasped  tightly  behind  her,  her 
body  strung  up,  so  it  seemed,  by  some  height  of  deter- 
mination.   She  wore  a  black  dress  with  a  little  white  round 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  431 

ter  neck  and  at  the  sleeves.  Her  hair  was  rolled  into  a 
pile  on  the  top  of  her  head  and  the  sunlight  from  the  or- 
chard was  shining  upon  it. 

When  Peter  called  her  name  she  turned  round  with  a 
startled  cry  and  put  her  hand  to  her  throat.  Then  she 
moved  back  against  the  window  as  though  she  were  afraid 
that  he  was  going  to  touch  her. 

He  noticed  her  movement  and  the  words  that  he  had 
intended  to  say  were  checked  on  his  lips.  He  stammered, 
instead,  something  about  going  out.  She  nodded  her  head; 
she  had  pulled  herself  together  and  walked  towards  him 
from  the  window. 

"Won't  you  come,  too?  It  is  such  a  lovely  day,"  he 
asked  her. 

"  I've  got  a  headache." 

"  It'll  do  your  headache  good." 

But  she  shook  her  head — "  No,  I'm  going  upstairs  to 
lie  down." 

She  moved  past  him  to  the  door.  Then  with  her  hand 
on  it  she  turned  back  to  him: — 

"  Peter,  I — "  she  said. 

She  seemed  to  appeal  to  him  with  her  eyes  beseeching, 
trying  to  say  something,  but  the  rest  of  her  face  was  dumb. 

The  appeal,  the  things  that  she  would  have  said  sud- 
denly died,  leaving  her  face  utterly  without  expression. 

"  Bobby  and  mother  are  coming  to  dinner  to-night,  aren't 
they?" 

"  Yes—" 

She  passed  through  the  door  across  the  sunlit  hall,  up 
the  dark  stairs.  She  walked  with  that  hesitating  halting 
step  that  he  knew  so  well;  her  small,  white  hand  lay,  for 
a  moment  on  the  banisters — ^then  she  had  disappeared. 

IV 

Coming  through  the  hall  Peter  noticed  that  there  was  a 
letter  in  the  box.  He  took  it  out  and  found,  with  delight, 
that  it  was  from  Stephen  Brant.  He  had  had  no  word 
from  him  since  the  day  when  he  and  Mr.  Zanti  had  paid 
their   fateful  visit. 

The  letter  said: — 


482  FORTITUDE 

Bear  Mr.  Peter, 

This  is  a  hurried  line  to  tell  you  that  He  is  dead  at  last, 
died  in  drink  cursing  and  swearing  and  non'  her  mother 
and  she,  poor  dear,  are  going  to  America  and  I'm  going  to 
look  after  her  hoping  that  we'll  be  marrying  in  a  few 
months'  time  and  so  realise  my   heart's   wish. 

Dear  Peter  I  sail  on  Thursday  from  Southampton  and 
tcould  be  coming  to  see  you  but  rrozdd  not  like  to  incon- 
venience you  as  you  now  are,  but  my  heart  is  ever  the  same 
to  you.  Dear  Boy,  and  the  day  will  come  when  tve  can  talk 
over  old  times  once  again. 

Your  affectionate  friend,  sir. 

Nam  about  to  he  made  the  happiest  man  in  all  the  world, 

Stephen. 

N.B.     I  hope  the  little  kid  is  strong  and  happy. 

N.B.  Zanti  goes  with  us  to  America  having  heard  of 
gold  in  California  and  is  to  be  my  best  man  when  the  day 
comes. 

So  Stephen's  long  wait  was  ended  at  last.  Peter's  eyes 
were  dimmed  as  he  put  the  letter  away  in  his  pocket. 
What  a  selfish  beast,  to  be  sure,  must  this  same  Peter  West- 
cott,  be,  for  here  he  was  wishing — yes,  almost  wishing — 
that  Stephen's  happiness  had  not  come  to  him.  Always  at 
Lhe  back  of  everything  there  had  been  the  thought  of  Stephen 
Brant.  Let  all  the  pits  in  the  world  gape  and  yawn,  there 
was  one  person  in  the  world  to  ■whom  Peter  was  precious. 
Now — in  America — with  a  wife  .  .  .  some  of  the  sun- 
light had  gone  out  of  the  air  and  Peter's  heart  was  suddenly 
cold  with  that  old  dread. 

Another  friend  taken  from  him !  Another  link  gone ! 
Then  he  pulled  himself  together,  tried  to  rejoice  with 
Stephen  at  his  happiness,  failed  dismally,  walked  down 
Piccadilly  defiantly,  with  swinging  shoulders  ana  a  frown- 
ing face,  like  a  sailor  in  a  hostile  country,  and  went  into 
the   Bond  Street  jeweller's. 

He  had  been  there  on  several  former  occasions  and  a 
large  stout  man  who  looked  as  though  he  must  have  been 
Lord  Mayor  several  years  running  came  forward  and  gave 
Peter  an  audience.  Precious  stones  were  of  no  account  in 
•uch  a  place  as  this,  and  the  ruby  pendant  looked  quite 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  433 

small  and  humble  when  it  was  brought  to  Peter — ^never- 
theless it  was  beautiful  and  would  suit  Clare  exactly.  It 
seemed  to  appeal  personally  to  Peter,  as  though  it  knew 
that  he  wanted  it  for  a  very  especial  occasion.  This  wasn't 
one  of  those  persons  who  would  come  in  and  buy  you  as 
though  you  were  dirt.  It  meant  something  to  Peter.  It 
meant  something  indeed — it  meant  exactly  sixty  pounds — 

"  Isn't  that  rather  a  lot  ?  "  said  Peter. 

**  It's  as  fine  a  ruby — "  said  the  dignitary,  looking  over 
Peter's  head  out  of  the  window,  as  though  he  were  tired 
of  the  affair  and  wanted  to  see  whether  his  car  were 
there. 

"  I'll  take  it,"   said   Peter  desperately. 

Sixty  Pounds!  Did  one  ever  hear  of  such  a  thing? 
Sixty  pounds  .  .  .  Never  mind,  it  marked  an  occasion. 
The  ruby  smiled  at  Peter  as  it  was  slipped  into  its  case; 
it  was  glad  that  it  was  going  to  somebody  who  hadn't  very 
many  things. 

He  had  several  other  matters  to  settle  and  it  was  nearly 
five  o'clock  when  he  turned  out  of  Knightsbridge  down 
Sloane  Street.  The  sun  was  slipping  behind  the  Hyde 
Park  Hotel  so  that  already  the  shadows  were  lying  along 
the  lower  parts  of  the  houses  although  the  roofs  were  bright 
with  sunshine. 

It  was  the  hour  when  all  the  dogs  were  taken  for  the  last 
exercise  of  the  day.  Every  kind  of  dog  was  there,  but 
especially  the  fat  and  pampered  variety — Poms,  King 
Charles,  Pekinese,  Dachshunds — a  few  bigger  dogs,  and 
even  one  mournful-eyed  Dane  who  walked  with  melancholy 
superiority,  as  a  king  amongst  his  vassals. 

The  street  stirred  with  the  patterings  of  dogs.  The 
light  slid  down  the  sky — voices  rang  in  the  clear  air  softly 
as  though  the  dying  day  had  besought  them  to  be  tender. 
The  colours  of  the  shops,  of  the  green  trees,  of  slim  and 
beautifully-dressed  houses  were  powdered  with  gold-dust; 
the  church  in  Sloane  Square  began  to  ring  its  bells. 

Peter,  as  he  turned  down  the  street,  was  cold — perhaps 
because  Knightsbridge  had  been  blazing  with  sunshine  and 
the  light  here  was  hidden.  ,  .  .  No,  it  was  more  than 
that.  .  .  . 

"  They  say,"  he  thought,  "  that  Cornishmen  always  know 


484  FORTITUDE 

when  a  disaster's  coming.  If  that's  true,  something  ought 
to  be  going  to  happen  to  me." 

And  then,  in  a  flash,  that  soimd  that  he  had  been  half- 
subconsciously  expecting,  came — the  sound  of  the  sea.  He 
could  hear  it  quite  distinctly,  a  distant,  half-determined 
movement  that  seemed  so  vast  in  its  roll  and  plunge,  so 
sharp  in  the  shock  with  which  it  met  the  shore,  and  yet  so 
subdued  that  it  might  be  many  thousands  of  miles  away. 
It  was  as  though  a  vast  tide  were  dragging  back  a  million 
shells  from  an  endless  shore — the  dragging  hiss,  the  hesi- 
tating suspense  in  mid-air,  and  then  the  rattle  of  the  return- 
ing wave. 

As  though  hypnotised  he  closed  his  eyes.  Yes,  he  was 
walking  along  the  Sea  Road.  There  was  that  range  of 
rock  that  lay  out  at  sea  hke  a  crouching  dog.  There  was 
that  white  twisting  circle  of  foam  that  lay  about  the 
Ragged  Stone — out  there  by  itself,  the  rock  with  the  mel- 
ancholy bell.  Then  through  the  plunging  sea  he  could  hear 
its  note — the  moan  of  some  one  in  pain.  And  ever  that 
rattle,  that  hiss,  that  suspense,  that  crash. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon — "  he  had  run  into  a  lady's  maid 
who  was  leading  a  pompous  King  Charles.  The  spaniel 
eyed  him  with  hatred,  the  maid  with  distrust.  He  passed 
on — but  the  Sea  had  departed. 

To  chase  away  his  gathering  depression  he  thought  that 
he  would  go  in  and  have  tea  with  Bobby  and  Alice.  It  was 
quite  late  when  he  got  there,  and  stars  were  in  a  sky  that 
was  so  delicate  in  colour  that  it  seemed  as  though  it  were 
exhausted  by  the  glorious  day  that  it  had  had;  a  little  sickle 
moon  was  poised  above  the  Chelsea  trees. 

To  his  disgust  he  found  that  Percival  and  Millicent  Gal- 
leon were  having  tea  with  their  brother.  Their  reception 
of  him  very  quickly  showed  him  that  "  Mortimer  Stant  "  had 
put  a  flnal  end  to  any  hopes  that  they  might  have  had  of 
his  career  as  an  artist. 

"  How's  the  book  doing,  Westcott  ?  "  said  Percival,  look- 
ing upon  Peter's  loose-fitting  clothes,  broad  shoulders  and 
square-toed  shoes  with  evident  contempt. 

"  Not  very  well  thank  you,  Galleon." 

"Ah,  well,  it  didn't  quite  come  off,  did  it,  Westcott? — 
not    quite.     Can't    hit   the    nail    every    time.     Now    young 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  435 

Eondel  in  this  Precipice  of  his  has  done  some  splendid 
work.  We  had  him  to  tea  the  other  day  and  really  he 
seemed  quite  a  nice  unassuming  fellow — " 

"  Oh !  shut  up,"  Bobby  growled.  "  You  talk  too  much, 
Percival." 

Peter  was  growing.  Quite  a  short  time  ago  he  would 
have  been  furious,  would  have  gone  into  his  shell,  refused 
to  speak  to  anybody,  been  depressed  and  glowering. 

Now,  smiling,  he  said: 

"  Alice,  won't  you  consider  it  and  come  up  and  dine  with 
us  after  all  to-night.'*  It's  only  my  mother-in-law  beside 
ourselves — " 

"  No,  thanks,  Peter.  I  mustn't.  The  boy's  not  quite 
the  thing." 

"  Well,  all  right — if  you  must." 

Nevertheless,  it  hurt,  although  it  was  only  that  young  ass 
of  a  Galleon.  That,  though,  was  one  of  the  pits  into  which 
one  must  not  look. 

He  felt  the  little  square  box  that  contained  the  ruby, 
lying  there  so  snugly  in  his  pocket.     That  cheered  him. 

"  I  must  be  getting  back.  Good-night,  everybody.  See 
you  at  dinner,  Bobby." 

He  went. 

After  Percival  and  his  sister  had  also  gone  Alice  said: — 

"  Dear  Peter's  growing  up," 

"  Yes,"  said  Bobby.  "  My  sweet  young  brother  wants 
the  most  beautiful  kicking  and  he'U  get  it  very  soon." 
Then  he  looked  at  the  clock.     "  I  must  go  up  and  dress." 

"  I'm  rather  glad,"  said  Alice,  "  I'm  not  coming.  Clare 
gets  considerably  on  my  nerves  just  at  present." 

"  Yes,"  said  Bobby,  "  but  thank  God  Mr.  Cardillac's  in 
Paris — for  the  time  being."     Then  he  added,  reflectively — 

"  Dear  old  Peter — bless  him !  " 


CHAPTER  XV 
MR,  WESTCOTT  SENIOR  CALLS  CHECKMATE 


PETER  felt  as  he  closed  the  hall  door  behind  him  that 
The  Roundabout  was  both  cold  and  dark.  The  little 
hall  drew  dusk  into  its  corners  very  swiftly  and  now,  as  he 
switched  on  the  electric  light,  he  was  conscious  almost 
of  protest  on  the  part  of  the  place,  as  though  it  wished 
that  it  might  have  been  left  to  its  empty  dusk. 

A  maid  passed  him. 

"  Has  your  mistress  gone  upstairs  ?  "  he  asked  her. 

"  I   don't  think  she  has  come  in,  sir." 

**  Not  come  in  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  she  went  out  about  three  o'clock.  I  don't 
think  she's  come  back,  sir." 

She's  running  it  pretty  close,  he  thought  as  he  looked 
at  his  watch — then  he  went  slowly  up  to  dress. 

He  had  been  more  irritated  by  the  superiorities  of  young 
Percival  Galleon  than  he  had  cared  to  confess.  Peter  had, 
at  the  bottom  of  his  soul,  a  most  real  and  even  touching 
humility.  He  had  no  kind  of  opinion  of  his  abilities,  of 
his  work  in  comparison  with  the  other  workers  that  counted. 
Moreover  he  would  not,  were  his  ultimate  critical  sense 
aroused,  fail  to  admit  to  himself  some  certain  standard  of 
achievement.  Nothing  that  young  Galleon  could  say  mat- 
tered from  the  critical  standpoint — nevertheless  he  seemed 
to  represent,  in  this  case,  a  universal  opinion;  even  in  his 
rejection  of  Peter  one  could  see,  behind  him,  a  world  of 
readers  withdrawing  their  approval. 

"  Peter  Wcstcott's  no  good.  .  .  .  Peter  Westcott's  no 
good.  .  .  .  Peter  Westcott's  no  good.  .  .  ." 

In  any  case  that  was  quite  enough  to  account  for  the 
oppression  that  he  was  feeling — feeling  with  increasing 
force  as  the  minutes  passed.  He  undressed  and  dressed 
again  slowly,  wondering  vaguely,  loosely,  in  the  back  of 

436 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  4S7 

his  mind,  why  it  was  that  Clare  had  not  come  in.  Perhaps 
she  had  come  in  and  the  maid  had  not  heard  her.  He  took 
the  ruby  out  of  his  pocket,  opened  the  little  case,  looked 
at  the  jewel  shining  there  under  the  electric  light,  thought 
of  Clare  with  a  sudden  rush  of  passionate  aiFection. 
"  Dear  thing,  won't  she  look  lovely  in  it  ?  Her  neck's  so 
white  and  she's  never  worn  much  jewellery — she'll  be 
pleased.  She'll  know  why  I'm  giving  it  to  her  now — a  kind 
of  seal  on  what  we  agreed  to  the  other  night.  A  new  life 
.  .  .  new  altogether.  .  .  ." 

He  was  conscious  as  he  took  his  shirt  off  that  his  windows 
were  open  and  a  strange  scent  of  burning  leaves  was  with 
him  in  the  room.  It  was  quite  strong,  pungent — very 
pleasant,  that  sense  of  burning.  Burning  leaves  in  the  or- 
chard. .  .  .  But  it  was  rather  cold.  Then  he  came  back 
to  his  looking-glass  and,  standing  there,  naked  save  for  his 
dress  trousers,  he  saw  that  he  was  looking  in  much  better 
health  than  he  had  looked  for  weeks.  The  colour  had  re- 
turned to  his  face,  his  eyes  were  brighter  and  more  alert — 
the  lines  had  gone.  He  was  strong  and  vigorous  as  he 
stood  there,  his  body  shining  under  the  glow.  He  opened 
and  shut  his  hands  feeling  the  strength,  force,  in  his  fingers. 
Thick-set,  sturdy,  with  his  shoulders  back  again  now, 
straight,  not  bent  as  they  had  been. 

"  Oh,  I'm  all  right — I'm  all  right  you  know.  I'll  write 
some  stuff  one  day  .  .  ."  and  even  behind  that  his  thought 
was — "  that  young  Galleon,  by  jove,  I  could  jolly  well 
break  him  if  I  wanted  to — just  snap  him  up." 

And  then  the  odour  of  the  burnt  leaves  filled  his  nostrils 
again;  when  he  had  dressed  he  turned  out  the  light,  opened 
the  windows  more  widely,  and  stood  for  a  moment  there 
smelling  the  smoke,  feeling  the  air  on  his  forehead,  seeing 
the  dark  fluttering  shadows  of  the  trees,  the  silver  moon,  the 
dim  red  haze  of  the  London  sky.  .  .  . 

n 

He  went  down  to  his  study.  Clare  must  be  in  now. 
Bobby  would  be  here  in  a  few  minutes.  He  took  up  the 
Times  but  his  mind  wandered.  "  Mr.  Penning  Bruce  was 
at  his  best  last  night  in  the  new  musical  Comedy  produced 
at  the  Apollo  Theatre — the  humour  of  his  performance  as 


4dd  FORTITtrDE 

Lieutenant  Pottle,  a  humour  never  exaggerated  nor 
strained.  .  .  ." 

But  he  couldn't  attend.  He  looked  up  at  the  little  clock 
and  saw  that  it  was  nearly  dinner-time.  Bobby  ought  to 
be  here. 

He  stood  up  and  listened.  The  house  was  profoundly 
silent.  It  was  often  silent — but  to-night  it  was  as  though 
everjiihing  in  the  house — the  furniture,  the  pictures — were 
listening — as  though  The  Roundabout  itself  listened. 

He  went  into  the  hall — stood  for  a  moment  under  the 
stairs — and  then  called  "  Clare — Clare."  He  waited  and 
then  again  "  Clare,  Clare — I  say,  it's  late.     Come  along — " 

There  was  no  answer. 

Then,  crossing  the  hall,  he  opened  the  door  of  the  little 
drawing-room  and  looked  in.  It  was  black  and  empty- 
here,  too,  he  could  smell  the  burning  leaves. 

He  switched  on  the  light  and  instantly,  perched  against 
the  Velasquez  Infanta,  saw  the  letter,  white  and  still  be- 
fore the  pink  and  grey  of  the  picture.  At  the  sight  of  the 
letter  the  room  that  had  been  empty  and  cold  was  suddenly 
burning  hot  and  filled  with  a  thousand  voices.  "  Take  it 
— take  it — why  don't  you  take  it.^  It's  been  waiting  there 
for  you  a  long  time  and  we've  all  been  wondering  when 
you  were  coming  in  for  it.  It's  waiting  there  for  yoa. 
Take  it — take  it — ^take  it!" 

At  the  sight  of  it  too,  the  floor  of  the  room  seemed  in- 
stantly to  pitch,  slanting  downwards,  like  the  deck  of  a 
sinking  ship.  He  caught  on  to  the  back  of  a  chair  in 
order  that  he  might  not  slip  with  it.  His  hands  shook 
and  there  was  a  great  pain  at  his  heart,  as  though  some  one 
were  pulling  it  tight,  then  squeezing  it  in  their  fingers  and 
letting  it  go  again. 

Then,  as  suddenly,  all  his  agitation  fled.  The  room  was 
cold  and  empty  again,  and  his  hands  were  steady.  He  took 
the  letter  and  read  it. 

It  was  written  in  great  agitation  and  almost  illegible, 
and  at  the  bottom  of  the  paper  there  was  a  dirty  smudge 
that  might  have  been  a  tear  stain  or  a  finger  mark. 

It  ran: 

I  must  go.     I  have  been  to  unhappy  for  to  long  and  me 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  439 

^don*t  get  on  together,  Peter,  now.  You  don't  understand 
me  and  I  must  be  happy.  I  had  always  been  happy  until 
I  married  you — perhaps  it's  partly  my  fault  but  I  only 
hinder  your  work  and  there  is  some  one  else  who  loves  me. 
He  has  alrvays  said  so. 

I  would  not  have  gone  perhaps  if  it  had  not  been  for 
what  you  did  on  April  12.  /  know  because  some  one  saw 
you  getting  into  a  cab  at  midnight  with  that  horrible  woman. 
That  shows  that  you  don't  care  about  me,  Peter.  But  per- 
haps I  would  have  gone  anyhow.  Once,  the  night  I  told 
you  about  baby  coming,  I  told  you  there'd  be  a  time  when 
you'd  have  to  hold  me.  It  came — and  you  didn't  see  it. 
You  didn't  care — you  can't  have  loved  me  or  you  would 
have  seen.  .  .  .  But  anything  is  better  than  staying  here 
like  this.  I  am  very  unhappy  now  but  you  will  not  care. 
You  are  cruel  and  hard,  Peter.  You  have  never  under- 
stood what  a  woman  wants. 

I  am  going  to  Jerry  in  Paris.  You  can  divorce  me.  I 
don't  care  about  anything  now.  I  won't  come  back — / 
won't,  I  won't — Clare. 

He  read  this  all  through,  very  carefully  with  a  serious 
brow.  He  finished  it  and  then  knew  that  he  had  not  read 
a  word  of  it.  He  went,  slowly,  to  the  window  and  opened 
it  because  the  room  was  of  a  stifling  heat.  Then  he  took 
the  letter  again  and  read  it.  As  he  finished  it  again  he 
was  conscious  that  the  door-bell  was  ringing.  He  won- 
dered why  it  was   ringing. 

He  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room  and  speaking 
to  himself:  "  The  humour  of  his  performance  as  Lieutenant 
Pottle,  a  humour  never  exaggerated  nor  strained  .  .  ." 

"  The  humour  of  his  Lieutenant  Pottle  as  a  per- 
former— never  strained  .  .  .  never  exaggerated  .  .  .  never 
strained  .  .  ." 

Bobby  came  in  and  found  him  there.  Peter's  face  was 
so  white  that  his  collar  and  shirt  seemed  to  be  a  continua- 
tion of  his  body — a  sudden  gruesome  nakedness.  Both  his 
hands  were  shaking  and  his  eyes  were  puzzled  as  though 
he  were  asking  himself  some  question  that  he  could  not 
solve. 

Bobby  started  forward — 


440  FORTITUDE 

"  God,  Peter,  what—" 

"  She's  gone  away,  Bobby,"  Peter  said,  in  a  voice  that 
shook  a  little  but  was  otherwise  grave  and  almost  a  whis- 
per, so  low  was  it.  "  She's  gone  away — to  Cardillac." 
Then  he  added  to  himself — "  Cardillac  is  my  best  friend." 

Then  he  said  "  Listen,"  and  he  read  the  letter  straight 
through.  He  repeated  some  of  the  phrases — "  \Miat  you 
did  on  April  12."  "  That  shows  that  you  don't  care.  .  .  . 
You  are  cruel  and  hard,  Peter.  ...  I  am  going  to  Jerry 
in    Paris.  ..." 

"  Jerry — that's  Cardillac,  you  know,  Bobby.  He's  in 
Paris  and  she's  going  over  to  him  because  she  can't  stand 
me  any  more.  She  says  I  don't  care  about  her.  Isn't  that 
funny,  when  I  love  her  so  much }  " 

Bobby  went  to  him,  put  his  arm  round  his  neck — 

"Peter — dear — Peter — wait,"  and  then  "Oh  my  God! 
we  must  stop  her — " 

He  drew  himself  away  from  Bobby's  arm  and,  very  mi- 
steadily,  went  across  the  room  and  then  stood  against  the 
farther  wall,  his  head  bent,  motionless. 

"Stop  her.-*  Oh!  no,  Bobby.  Stop  her  when  she  wants 
to  go!  I — "  His  voice  wasn't  Peter's  voice,  it  was  a 
thin  monotonous  voice  like  some  one  speaking  at  a  great 
distance. 

Then  it  seemed  that  intelligence  was  flashed  upon  him. 
He  lurched  forward  and  with  a  great  voice — as  though  he 
had  been  struck  by  some  sudden  agonising,  immortal 
pain — 

"  Bobby— Bobby— My  wife— Clare— " 

And  at  that  instant  Mrs.  Rossiter  was  shown  into  the 
room. 

ni 

The  maid  who  opened  the  door  had  apparently  some 
suspicion  that  "  things  were  odd,"  because  she  waited  for 
a  moment  before  she  closed  the  door  again,  staring  with 
wide  eyes  into  the  room,  catching,  perhaps,  some  hint  from 
her  master's  white  face  that  something  terrible  had  oc- 
curred. 

It  was  obvious  enough  that  Mrs.  Rossiter  had  herself, 
during  the  last  week,   been  in  no  easy  mind.     From  the 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  441 

first  glances  at  Peter  and  Bobby  she  seemed  to  understand 
everything,  for,  instantly,  at  that  glimpse  of  their  faces 
she  became,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  perhaps,  a  per- 
sonality, a  figure,  something  defined  and  outlined. 

Her  face  was  suddenly  grey.  She  hesitated  back  against 
the  door  and,  with  her  face  on  Peter,  said  in  a  whisper,  to 
Bobby: 

"  What — what  has  happened  f  " 

Bobby  was  not  inclined  to  spare  her.  As  an  onlooker 
during  these  last  months  he  felt  that  she,  perhaps,  was 
more  guiltily  responsible  for  the  catastrophe  than  any  other 
human  being. 

"Clare,"  he  said,  trying  to  fix  her  eyes.  "  She's  gone  off 
to  Cardillac — to  Paris." 

Then  he  was  himself  held  by  the  tragedy  of  those  two 
faces.  They  faced  each  other  across  the  room.  Peter, 
with  eyes  and  a  mouth  that  were  not  his,  eyes  not  sane,  the 
eyes  of  no  human  being,  mouth  smiling,  drawn  tight  like 
a  razor's  edge,  with  his  hands  spread  out  against  the  wall, 
watched  Mrs.   Rossiter. 

Mrs.  Rossiter,  at  Bobby's  words,  had  huddled  up,  sud- 
denly broken,  only  her  eyes,  in  her  great  foolish  expression- 
less face,  stung  to  an  agony  to  which  the  rest  of  her  body 
could  not  move. 

Her  little  soul — a  tiny  scrap  of  a  thing  in  that  vague 
prison  of  dull  flesh — was  suddenly  wounded,  desperately 
hurt  by  the  only  weapon  that  could  ever  have  found  it. 

"  Clare !  "  that  soul  whispered,  "  not  gone !  It's  not  pos- 
sible— ^it  can't  be — ^it  can't  be !  " 

Peter,  without  moving,  spoke  to  her. 

"  It's  you  that  have  sent  her  away.  It's  all  your  doing 
^all  your  doing — " 

She  scarcely  seemed  to  realise  him,  although  her  eyes 
never  left  his  face — she  came  up  to  Bobby,  her  hands  out: 

"  Bobby — please,  please — tell  me.  This  is  absurd — 
there's  a  mistake.  Clare,  Clare  would  never  do  a  thing 
like  that — never  leave  me  like  that — why — "  find  her  voice 
rose — "  I've  loved  her — I've  loved  her  as  no  mother  ever 
loved  her  girl — she's  been  everything  to  me.  She  knows  it 
— why  she  often  says  that  I'm  the  only  one  who  loves  her. 
She'd  never  go — " 


442  FORTITUDE 

Then  Peter  came  forward  from  the  wall,  muttering,  wav- 
ing his  hands  at  her — "It's  you!  You!  You!  You've 
driven  her  to  this — you  and  your  cursed  interference.  You 
took  her  from  me — you  told  her  to  deceive  me  in  every- 
thing. You  taught  her  to  lie  and  trick.  She  loved  me  be- 
fore you  came  into  it.  Now  be  proud,  if  you  like — now 
be  proud.  God  damn  you,  for  making  your  daughter 
into  a  whore — That's  what  you've  done,  you  with  your 
flat  face,  your  filthy  flat  face — you've  made  your  daugh- 
ter a  whore,  I  teU  you — and  it's  nothing  but  you — ^you — 
you — !  " 

He  lifted  his  hand  as  though  he  would  strike  her  across 
the  face.  She  said  nothing  but  started  back  with  her  hands 
up  as  though  to  protect  herself.  He  did  not  strike  her. 
His  hand  fell.  But  she,  as  though  she  had  felt  a  blow 
had  her  hand  held  to  her  face. 

He  stood  over  her  for  a  moment  laughing,  his  head  flung 
back.  Then  still  laughing  he  went  away  from  them  out 
into  the   hall. 

Then,  through  the  open  door  they  heard  him.  He 
passed  through  the  upper  rooms  crying  out  as  he  went — 
"  Clare !  Clare !  Where  are  you .''  Come  down !  They're 
here  for  dinner !  You're  wanted !  It's  time,  Clare ! — 
where   are   you  ?     Clare !     Clare !  " 

They  heard  him,  knocking  furniture  over  as  he  went. 
Then  there  was  silence.  Mrs.  Rossiter  seemed,  at  that,  to 
come  to  herself.     She  stood  up,  feeling  her  cheek. 

"  It's  sent  him  off  his  head,  Bobby.  Go  after  him.  He'll 
hurt  himself."  Then  as  though  to  herself,  she  went  on — 
"  I  must  find  Clare — she'll  be  in  Paris,  I  suppose.  I  must 
go  and  find  her,  Bobby.     She'll  want  me  badly." 

She  went  quietly  from  the  room,  still  with  her  hand  to 
her  cheek.     She  listened  for  a  moment  in  the  hall. 

She  turned  round  to  Bobby: 

"It   doesn't   say — the  letter — where   Clare's   gone?" 

"  No — only   Paris." 

He  helped  her  on  with  her  cloak  and  opened  the  front 
door  for  her.     She  slipped  away  down  the  street. 

Bobby  turned  back  and  saw  that  Peter  was  coming 
down  the  stairs.  But  now  the  fury  had  all  died  from  his 
face,  only  that  look,  as  of  some  animal  wounded  to  death. 


THE  ROUNDABOUT  ^43 

a  look  that  "was  so  deep  and  terrible  as  almost  to  give  his 
white  face  no  expression  at  all,  was  with  him. 

It  had  been  with  him  at  Stephen's  death,  it  was  with  him 
far  more  intensely  now.     He  looked  at  Bobby. 

"  She's  gone,"  in  a  tired,  dull  voice  as  of  some  one  nearly 
asleep,  "  gone  to  Cardillac.  I  loved  Cards — and  all  the 
time  he  loved  Clare.  I  loved  Clare  and  all  the  time  she 
loved  Cards.     It's  damned  funny  isn't  it,  Bobby,  old  man  ?  " 

He  stood  facing  him  in  the  hall,  no  part  of  him  moving 
except  his  mouth.  "  She  says  I  treated  her  like  a  brute. 
I  don't  think  I  did.  She  says  there  was  something  I  did 
one  night — I  don't  know.  I've  never  done  anything — 
I've  never  been  with  another  woman — something  about  a 
cab — Perhaps  it  was  poor  Rose  Bennett.  Poor  Rose  Ben- 
nett— damned  unhappy — so  am  I — so  am  I.  I'm  a  lonely 
fellow — I  always  have  been !  " 

He  went  past  Bobby,  back  into  the  little  drawing-room. 
Bobby   followed  him. 

He  turned  round. 

"  You  can  go  now,  Bobby.     I  shan't  want  you  any  more." 

"  No,   I'm   going  to   stay." 

"  I   don't  want  you — I   don't  want  any  one." 

"  I'm  going  to  stay." 

"  I'd  rather  you  went,  please." 

"  I'm  going  to  stay." 

Peter  paid  no  more  attention.  He  went  and  sat  down  on 
a  chair  by  the  window.  Bobby  sat  down  on  a  chair  near 
him. 

Once  Peter  said :  "  They  took  my  baby.  They  took  my 
work.  They've  taken  my  wife.  They're  too  much  for  me. 
I'm  beaten." 

Then  there  was  absolute  silence  in  the  house.  The  serv- 
ants, who  had  heard  the  tumbling  of  the  furniture,  crept, 
frightened  to  bed. 

Thus  The  Roundabout,  dark,  utterly  without  sound,  stayed 
through  the  night.  Once,  from  the  chair  by  the  window  in 
the  little  drawing-room  a  voice  said,  "I'm  going  back  to 
Scaw  House — to  my  father.  I'm  going  back — to  all  of 
them." 

During  many  hours  the  little  silver  clock  ticked  cheer- 
fully, seeing  perhaps  with  its  little  bright  eyes,  the  two 
dark  figures  and  wondering  what  they  did  there. 


BOOK  IV 
SCAW  HOUSE 


CHAPTER  I 
THE  SEA 


PETER  WESTCOTT  was  dead. 
They  put  his  body  into  the  11.50  from  Paddington. 

II 

It  was  a  day  of  high,  swinging  winds,  of  dappled  skies, 
of  shining  gleaming  water.  Bunches  now  and  again  of 
heavy  black  clouds  clustered  on  the  horizon,  the  cows  and 
horses  in  the  fields  were  sharply  defined,  standing  out  rig- 
idly against  a  distant  background.  The  sun  came  and  was 
gone,  laughed  and  was  instantly  hidden,  turned  the  world 
from  light  to  shadow  and  from  shadow  back  to  light  again. 

Peter's  body  was  alone  in  the  compartment.  It  was 
propped  up  against  red  velvet  that  yielded  with  a  hard, 
clenched  resistance,  something  uncomfortable,  had  the  body 
minded.  The  eyes  of  the  body  were  the  high  blank  win- 
dows of  a  deserted  house.  Behind  them  were  rooms  and 
passages,  but  lately  so  gaily  crowded,  so  eager,  with  their 
lights  and  fires,  for  hustling  life — now  suddenly  empty — 
swept  of  all  its  recent  company,  waiting  for  new,  for  very 
different    inhabitants. 

The  white  hands  motionless  upon  the  knees,  the  eyes 
facing  the  light  but  blind,  the  body  still  against  the  velvet, 
throughout  the  long,  long  day.  .  .  . 


in 

There  were  occasions  when  some  one  came  and  asked  for 
his  ticket.  Some  one  came  once  and  asked  him  whether 
"  He  would  take  lunch."  Once  a  woman,  flushed  and  ex- 
cited, laden  with  parcels,  tumbled  into  his  carriage  and 
then,  after  a  glance  at  the  white  face,  tumbled  out  again« 

447 


448  FORTITUDE 

Then,  from  very,  very  far  away,  came  the  first  whispered 
breath  of  returning  consciousness.  The  afternoon  sun  now 
had  banished  the  black  clouds — the  wind  had  fallen — the 
sky  was  a  quiet  blue  and  birds  rose  and  fell,  rivers  shone 
and  had  passed,  roads  were  white  like  ribbons,  broad  and 
brown  like  crinkled  paper,  then  ribbons  again  as  the  train 
flung  Devonshire,  scornfully,  behind  its  back.  Peter  was 
conscious  that  his  body  was  once  more  to  be  tenanted.  But 
by  whom? 

Here  was  some  one  coming  to  him  now,  some  one  who,  as 
the  evening  light  fell  about  the  land,  dark  with  his  cloak 
to  his  face,  came  softly  upon  the  house  and  knocked  at  the 
door.  Peter  could  hear  his  knock — it  echoed  through  the 
empty  passages,  the  deserted  rooms,  it  was  a  knock  that 
demanded,  imperatively,  admittance.  The  door  swung  back, 
the  black  passages  gaped  upon  the  evening  light  and  were 
closed  again.  The  house  was  once  more  silent — but  no 
longer  untenanted. 

nr 

Peter  was  now  conscious  of  the  world.  That  was  Exeter 
that  they  had  left  behind  them  and  soon  there  would  be 
Plymouth  and  then  the  crossing  of  the  bridge  and  then — 
Cornwall ! 

Cornwall!  His  lips  were  dry — he  touched  them  with 
his  tongue,  and  knew,  suddenly,  that  he  was  thirsty,  more 
thirsty  than  he  had  ever  been.  He  would  never  be  hungry 
again,  but  he  would  always  be  thirsty.  An  attendant 
passed.  WTiat  should  he  drink.''  The  attendant  suggested 
a  whisky  and  soda.     Yes  ...  a  large  whisky.  .  .  . 

It  was  very  long  indeed  since  he  had  bt^en  in  Cornwall — 
he  had  not  been  there  since  his  boyhood.  What  had  he 
been  doing  all  the  time  in  between.^  He  did  not  know — 
he  had  no  idea.  This  new  tenant  of  the  house  was  not 
aware  of  those  intervening  years,  was  only  conscious  that 
he  was  returning  after  long  exile,  to  his  home — Scaw  House, 
yes,  that  was  the  name  .  .  ,  the  house  with  the  trees  and 
the  grey  stone  walls — yes,  he  would  be  glad  to  be  at  home 
again  with  his  father.  His  father  would  welcome  him  after 
so  long  an  absence. 


SCAW  HOUSE  449 

The  whisky   and   soda   was  brought   to  him   and   as   he 
drank  it  they  crossed  the  border  and  were  in  Cornwall. 


They  were  at  Trewth,  that  little  station  where  you  must 
change  for  Treliss.  It  stood  open  to  all  the  winds  of 
heaven,  two  lines  of  paling,  a  little  strip  of  platform,  stand- 
ing desolately,  at  wistful  attention  in  the  heart  of  gently 
breathing  fields,  mild  skies,  dark  trees  bending  together  as 
though  whispering  secrets  ...  all  mysterious,  and  from  the 
earth  there  rose  that  breath — sea-wind,  gorse,  soil,  saffron, 
grey  stone — that  breath  that  is  only  Cornwall. 

Peter — somewhere  in  some  strange  dim  recesses  of  his 
soul — felt  it  about  his  body.  The  wind,  bringing  all  these 
scents,  touched  his  cheek  and  his  hair  and  he  was  conscious 
that  that  dark  traveller  who  now  tenanted  his  house  closed 
the  doors  and  windows  upon  that  breath.  It  might  waken 
consciousness,  and  consciousness  memory,  and  memory  pain 
...  ah !  pain ! — down  with  the  shutters,  bolt  the  doors- 
no  vision  of  the  outer  world  must  enter  here. 

The  little  station  received  gratefully  the  evening  light 
that  had  descended  upon  it.  A  few  men  and  women,  dim 
bundles  of  figures  against  the  pale  blue,  waited  for  the 
train,  a  crescent  moon  was  stealing  above  the  hedges,  from 
the  chimneys  of  two  little  cottages  grey  smoke  trembled  in 
the  air. 

Suddenly  there  came  to  Peter,  waiting  there,  the  deter- 
mination to  drive.  He  could  not  stand  there,  surrounded  by 
this  happy  silence  any  longer.  All  those  shadows  that 
were  creeping  about  the  dark  spaces  beyond  his  house  were 
only  waiting  for  their  moment  when  they  might  leap.  This 
silence,  this  peace,  would  give  them  that  moment.  He  must 
drive — he  must  drive:  .  •  . 

In  the  road  outside  the  station  a  decrepit  cab  with  a 
thin  rake  of  a  man  for  driver  was  waiting  for  a  possible 
customer.  The  cab  was  faded,  the  wheels  encrusted  with 
ancient  mud,  the  horse  old  and  wheezy,  but  the  cabman, 
standing  now  thinner  than  ever  against  the  sky,  was,  in 
spite  of  a  tattered  top  hat,  filled  with  that  cheerful  optimism 
that  belongs  to  the  Cornishman  who  sees  an  opportunity 
of  '■  doing  "  a  foreigner. 


460  FORTITUDE 

"  I  want  to  drive  to  Treliss,"  said  Peter. 

They  bargained.  The  battered  optimist  obtained  the 
price  that  he  demanded  and  cocked  his  eye,  derisively,  at 
the  rising  moon. 

Peter  surveyed  the  cab. 

"  I'll  sit  with  you  on  the  box,"  he  said. 

The  thin  driver  made  way  for  him.  It  was  a  high  jolt- 
ing cab  of  the  old-fashioned  kind,  a  cab  you  might  have 
sworn  was  Cornish  had  you  seen  it  anywhere,  a  cab  that 
smelt  of  beer  and  ancient  leather  and  salt  water,  a  cab  that 
had  once  driven  the  fashion  of  Treliss  to  elegant  dances 
and  now  must  rattle  the  roads  with  very  little  to  see,  for  all 
your  trouble,  at  the  end  of  it. 

The  sleeping  fields,  like  grey  cloths,  stretched  on  every 
side  of  them  and  the  white  road  cut  into  the  heart  of  the 
distance.  It  was  a  quarter  to  eight  and  a  blue  dusk.  The 
driver  tilted  the  top  hat  over  one  ear  and  they  were  off. 

"  I  know  this  road  as  yer  might  say  back'ards.  Ask 
any  one  down  along  Treliss  way.  Zachy  Jackson  they'll 
say — which  is  my  name,  sir,  if  yer  requirin'  a  good  'orse 
any  time  o'  day.  Zachy  Jackson !  which  there  ain't  no  man, 
— tarkin'  of  'orses,  fit  to  touch  'im,  they'll  tell  yer  and  not 
far  wrong  either." 

But  now  with  every  stumbling  step  of  that  bony  horse 
Peter  was  being  shaken  into  a  more  active  consciousness, 
consciousness  not  of  the  past,  very  slightly  of  the  present, 
but  rather  of  an  eager,  excited  anticipation  of  events  shortly 
to  befall  him,  of  the  acute  sense — the  first  that  had,  as  yet, 
come  to  him — that,  very  shortly,  he  was  to  plunge  himself 
into  an  absolute  abandonment  of  all  the  restraints  and  dis- 
cipline that  had  hitherto  held  him.  He  did  not  know,  he 
could  not  analyse  to  himself — for  what  purpose  those  re- 
straints had  been  formerly  enforced  upon  his  life.  Only 
now — at  this  moment,  his  body  was  being  flooded  with  a 
warm,  riotous  satisfaction  at  the  thought  of  the  indulgences 
that  were  to  be  his. 

Still  this  fortress  of  his  house  was  bare  and  desolated, 
but  now  in  some  of  the  rooms  there  were  lights,  fire,  whis- 
pers, half-hidden   faces,  eyes  behind  curtains. 

The  wind  struck  him  in  the  face.  "  Enough  of  this — 
vou're  done  for — you're  beaten — ^you're  broken  .  .  .  jou'r* 


SCAW  HOUSE  451 

going  back  to  your  hovel.  You're  creeping  home — don't 
make  a  fine  thing  of  it — "  the  wind  said. 

The  top  of  the  hill  rolled  up  to  them  and  suddenly  with 
the  gust  that  came  from  every  quarter  there  was  borne 
some  sound.  It  was  very  delicate,  very  mysterious — the 
sound,  one  might  fancy,  that  the  earth  would  make  if  all 
spring  flowers  were  to  pierce  the  soil  at  one  common  in- 
stant— so   fugitive  a   whisper. 

"  That's  the  sea "  said  Mr.  Jackson,  waving  his  whip 
in  the  air,  "  down  to  Dunotter  Cove.  There's  a  wind  to- 
night.    It'll  blow  rough  presently." 

Now  from  their  hilltop  in  the  light  of  a  baby  moon 
puddles  of  water  shone  like  silk,  hedges  were  bending  lines 
of  listeners,  far  on  the  horizon  a  black  wood,  there  in  one 
of  those  precipitous  valleys  cottages  cowering,  overhead 
the  blue  night  sky  suddenly  chequered  with  solemn  pompous 
slowly  moving  clouds.  But  here  on  the  hilltop  at  any  rate, 
a  bustle  of  wind — such  a  noise  amongst  the  hedges  and  the 
pools  instantly  ruffled  and  then  quiet  again;  and  so  precipi- 
tous a  darkness  when  a  cloud  swallowed  the  moon.  In  the 
daylight  that  landscape,  to  any  one  who  loved  not  Cornwall, 
would  seem  ugly  indeed,  with  a  grey  cottage  stuck  here  and 
there  naked  upon  the  moor,  with  a  bare  deserted  engine 
house  upon  the  horizon,  with  trees,  deep  in  the  little  valley, 
but  scant  and  staggering  upon  the  hill — ugly  by  day  but 
now  packed  with  a  mystery  that  contains  everything  that 
human  language  has  no  name  for,  there  is  nothing  to  do, 
on  beholding  it,  but  to  kneel  down  and  worship  God.  Mr. 
Jackson  had  seen  it  often  before  and  he  went  twice  to 
chapel  every  Sunday,  so  he  just  whipped  up  his  horse  and 
they  stumbled   down  the  road. 

"  Dirty  weather  coming,"  he  said. 

Peter  was  disturbed.  That  whispering  noise  that  had 
crept  across  the  country  frightened  him  If  it  went  on 
much  longer  it  would  make  him  remember — he  must  not 
remember. 

They  turned  down  into  a  deep,  mysterious  lane  and  the 
whisper  was  hidden.  Now  there  was  about  them  only  the 
urgent  crowding  of  the  hedges,  the  wild-flowers  flinging 
their  scent  on  to  the  night  air,  and  above  and  below  and  on 
every  side  of  the  old  cab  there  streamed  into  the  air  the 


452  FORTITUDE 

sweet  smell  of  crushed  grass,  as  though  many  fields  had  been 
pressed  between  giant's  fingers  and  so  had  been  left. 

Peter  sat  there  and  about  him,  like  flames  licking  wood- 
work, e\il  thoughts  devoured  his  body.  He  was  going  now 
at  last  to  do  all  those  things  that,  these  many  years,  he  had 
prevented  himself  from  doing.  That  at  any  rate  he  knew. 
.  .  .  He  would  drink  and  drink  and  drink,  until  he  would 
never  remember  anything  again  .  .  .  never  again.  .  .  . 
Meanwhile  as  the  cab  slowly  began  to  climb  the  hill  again 
Mr.  Jackson  was  telling  a  story. 

He  rolled  his  r's  as  though  life  were  indeed  a  valuable 
and  happy  thing,  and  now  and  again,  waving  his  thin  whip 
in  the  air,  he  would  seem  to  appeal  to  the  moon. 

"  'Twas  down  to  Dunotter  Cove  and  I,  a  lad,  my  father 
bein'  a  fisherman,  and  one  night,  I  mind  it  as  though  it 
were  yesterday,  there  was  a  mighty  wreck.  Storm  and 
wind  and  rain  there  was  that  night  and  there  we  were,  out 
in  it,  suddenly,  all  the  village  of  us.  I  but  a  slip  of  a  boy, 
you  must  know,  which  it  was  thirty  year  back  now  and  the 
rain  sizzling  on  the  cobbles  and  the  wind  blawin'  the  chim- 
neys crooked.  Well — she  were  a  mighty  wreck  blawn  right 
up  against  the  Dunotter  rocks,  you  understand,  and  sendin' 
up  rockets  and  we  seein'  her  clear  enough,  black  out  to  sea 
which  she  seemed  enormous  in  the  night  time  and  all.  My 
father  and  the  rest  of  'em  went  out  in  the  boat — we  waited 
and  we  waited  and  they  didn't  come  back.  .  .  .  They  never 
come  back — none  of  them  only  a  crazed  luny.  Bill  Tre- 
gothny — 'e  was  washed  up  against  the  rocks  down  to 
Bosillian  and  'e  were  just  livin'  .  .  .  And  when  it  come 
daylight," — Mr.  Jackson  cleared  his  throat  and  paused — 
"  when  it  come  daylight  there  wasn't  no  M'reck — nothing — 
nor  no  bodies  neither — nothing — only  Bill  Tregothny  the 
fool.  .  .  ." 

Peter  had  heard  no  single  word  of  this.  His  ears  were 
straining  for  the  return  of  that  whisper.  They  were  nearly 
once  again  at  the  hilltop.  Then  in  front  of  them  there 
would  be  the  sea — at  the  top  of  the  hill  there  would  be  the 
sea.  .  .  .  He  was  seized  with  a  great  terror — frightened 
like  a  child  in  the  dark.  ..."  Bill  Tregothny,  you  must 
understand  sir,  'ad  always  been  a  idiot — always,  born  so. 
When  'e  was  all  well  again  'e  told  strange  tales  about  the 


SCAW  HOUSE  453 

lot  of  them  havin*  boarded  the  vessel  and  there  bein'  gold 
all  over  the  decks — bars  of  it  with  the  rain  fallin'  all  about 
it — piled  in  'eaps  and  'e  said  the  sailors  weren't  like  com- 
mon sailors  yer  knew,  but  all  in  silks  with  cocked  hats  and 
the  gold  lyin'  all  about — 

"  O  course  Bill  was  the  idiot  you  must  understand,  but 
it's  true  enough  that  there  were  no  vessel  in  the  marnin' — • 
no  vessel  at  all — and  my  father  and  the  rest  were  never 
seen  again — ^nor  no  bodies  neither.  .  .  .  And  they  do 
say—" 

Here  Mr.  Jackson  dropped  his  voice — 

They  were  just  at  the  top  of  the  hill  now.  Peter  was 
sitting  with  his  hands  clenched,  his  body  trembling. 

"...  They  do  say  that  up  in  the  potato  field  over 
Dunotter  they've  seen  a  man  all  in  a  cocked  hat  and  red 
silk  and  gold  lace — a  ghost  you  must  understand,  sir — 
which  Bill  Tregothny  says  .  .  ." 

The  sea  broke  upon  them  with  an  instant,  menacing 
roar.  Between  them  and  this  violence  there  was  now  only 
moorland,  rough  with  gorse  bushes,  uneven  with  little  pits 
of  sand,  scented  with  sea  pinks,  with  stony  tracks  here 
and  there  where  the  moonlight  touched  it. 

But  across  it,  like  a  mob's  menace,  fell  the  thunder,  flung 
up  to  them  from  below,  swelling  from  a  menace  to  a  sudden 
crash,  then  from  crash  to  echo,  dying  to  murmur  again. 
It  had  in  it  anger  and  power,  also  pity  and  tenderness,  also 
scorn  and  defiance.  It  cared  for  no  one — it  loved  every 
one.  It  was  more  intimate  than  any  confidence  ever  made, 
and  then  it  shouted  that  intimacy  to  the  whole  world.  It 
flung  itself  into  Peter's  face,  beat  his  body,  lashed  his  soul 
— "  Oh !  you  young  fool — you've  come  slinking  back,  have 
you?  After  all  these  years  you've  come  slinking  back. 
Where  are  all  your  fine  hopes  now,  where  all  those  early 
defiances,  those  vast  ambitions? — Worthless,  broken,  de- 
feated— worthless,  broken,  defeated." 

And  then  it  seemed  to  change: 

"  Peter — Peter — Hold  out  a  little  longer — the  battle  isn't 
over  yet — struggle  on  for  a  little,  Peter — I'll  help  you — 
I'll  bring  your  courage  back  to  you — Trust  me,  Peter-~- 
trust  me.  .  .  ." 

Through  the  rattle  of  the  surf  there  came  the  sick  mel- 


464  FORTITUDE 

ancholy  lowing  of  the  Bell  Rock;  swinging  over  a  space  of 
■waters  it  fell  across  fields,  unutterably,  abominably  sad. 

And  in  the  boy  there  instantly  leapt  to  life  his  soul. 
Maimed  and  bruised  and  stunned  it  had  been — now  alive, 
tearing  him,  bringing  on  to  his  bending  shoulders  an  awful 
tide  of  knowledge:  "  Everything  is  gone — your  wife,  your 
boy,  your  friend,  your  work.  .  .  .  We  have  won,  Peter,  we 
have   won.     The    House    is   waiting   for   you.  .  .  ." 

And  above  those  dreadful  voices  the  thundering  echo, 
indifferent  to  his  agonies,  despising  his  frailties,  flinging 
him,  sea- wreck  of  the  most  miserable,  to  any  insignificant 
end.  .  .  . 

Peter  suddenly  stood  up,  rocking  on  his  box.  He  seized 
the  whip  from  the  driver's  hands.  He  lashed  the  miserable 
horse. 

"  Get  on,  you  devil,  get  on — leave  this  noise  behind  you 
— get  out  of  it,  get  out  of  it — " 

The  cab  rocked  and  tossed,  Mr.  Jackson  caught  the  boy 
about  the  shoulders,  held  him  down.  The  horse,  tired  and 
weary,  paid  no  heed  to  anything  that  might  be  happening 
but  stumbled  on. 

"  Good  Lord,  sir,"  Mr.  Jackson  cried,  "  you  might  have 
had  us  over — What's  it  all  about,  sir?  " 

But  Peter  now  was  huddled  down  with  his  coat  about  his 
ears  and  did  not  move  again. 

"  Catchin'  the  whip  like  that — might  'ave  'ad  us  right 
into  the  'edge,"  muttered  Mr.  Jackson,  wishing  his  journey 
well  over. 

As  they  turned  the  corner  the  lights  of  Treliss  burst  into 
view. 


CHAPTER  II 
SCAW  HOUSE 


MR.  JACKSON  inquired  as  to  the  hotel  that  Peter  pre- 
ferred and  was  told  to  drive  anywhere,  so  he  chose 
The   Man   at   Arms. 

The  Man  at  Arms  had  been  turned,  by  young  Mr.  Ban- 
nister, from  a  small  insignificant  hostelry  into  the  most  im- 
portant hotel  in  the  West  of  England.  It  stood  above  the 
town,  looking  over  the  bay,  the  roofs  of  the  new  town, 
the  cottages  of  the  old  one,  the  curving  island  to  the  right, 
the  lighthouse  to  the  left — all  Cornwall  in  those  grey  stones, 
that  blue  sea,  the  grave  fishing  boats,  the  flocks  of  gulls, 
far,  far  below. 

Mr.  Bannister  had  spared  no  trouble  over  The  Man  at 
Arms,  and  now  it  was  luxuriously  modern  Elizabethan,  with 
an  old  Minstrels'  Gallery  kept  studiously  dusty,  and  the 
most  splendid  old  oak  and  deep  fire-places  with  electric 
light  cunningly  arranged,  and  baths  in  every  passage.  Of 
course  you  paid  for  this  skilful  and  comfortable  romance, 
but  Mr.  Bannister  always  managed  his  bills  so  delicately 
that  you  expected  to  find  a  poem  by  Suckling  or  Lovelace 
on  the  back  of  them.  When  Peter  had  been  last  in  Treliss 
The  Man  at  Arms  had  scarcely  existed,  but  he  was  now 
utterly  unconscious  of  it,  and  stood  in  the  dim  square  hall 
talking  to  Mr.  Bannister  like  a  man  in  a  dream. 

He  was  aware  now  that  he  was  exhausted  with  a  fatigue 
that  was  beyond  anything  that  he  had  ever  experienced. 
It  was  a  weariness  that  was  not,  under  any  conditions,  to 
be  resisted.  He  must  lie  down — here,  anywhere — now,  at 
once  and   sleep  .  .  .  sleep  .  .  .  sleep. 

Mr.   Bannister  caught  him  by  the  arm  as  he  swayed. 

"  You  looked   played   out,   sir." 

"  Done  up  .  .  .  done  up !  " 

His   eyes  were  closed.     Then   suddenly  he  had  touched 

455 


456  FORTITUDE 

Mr.  Bannister's  shoulder.  He  was  looking  at  a  wire  let- 
ter rack,  hanging  by  the  superintendent's  little  office. 
There  were  some  telegrams  and  many  letters  stretched  be- 
hind the  wire  netting.     One  envelope  was  addressed — 

Mitt  Norah  Monogue, 

The  Man  at  Arms  Hotel. 
Treliss, 

Cornwall. 

**  Miss  Monogue  .  .  .  Miss  Monogue  .  .  .  have  you  any 
one  here  called   Miss   Monogue  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir — been  here  some  weeks.  Poor  lady,  she's  very 
ill  I'm  afraid.  Something  to  do  with  her  heart — strained 
it  in  some  way.  Seemed  much  better  .  .  .  but  the  last  few 
days.  .  .  ." 

Peter  stiunbled  upstairs  to  his  room. 


n 

Some  clock  was  striking  five  when  he  awoke  and  looking 
vaguely  about  his  room  saw,  by  the  light,  that  it  must  be 
late  afternoon.  He  must  have  slept  for  a  day  and  a  night. 
As  he  lay  back  on  his  bed  his  first  moments  of  conscious- 
ness were  filled  with  a  pleasant  sense  of  rest  and  ease. 
He  remembered  nothing  ...  he  only  knew  that  in  the  air 
there  was  the  breath  of  flowers  and  that  through  the  open 
window  there  floated  up  to  him  a  song,  a  murmur  of  the 
sea,  a  rattle  of  little  carts. 

He  looked  about  his  room.  On  a  distant  wall  there  was 
a  photograph — "  Dunotter  Rocks,  from  the  East."  Then 
he  remembered. 

He  flung  the  bed-clothes  off  him  and  hurried  to  dress. 
He  must  go  up  to  Scaw  House  at  once,  at  once,  at  once. 
Not  another  moment  must  be  wasted.  His  hands  trembled 
as  he  put  on  his  clothes  and  when  he  came  downstairs  he 
was  dishevelled  and  untidy.  He  had  eaten  nothing  for 
many  hours  but  food  now  would  have  choked  him.  He  hur- 
ried out  of  the  hotel. 

The  town  must  have  had  many  recollections  to  offer  him 
had  he  observed  it  but  he  passed  through  it,  looking  neither 
to  the  right  nor  the  left,  brushing  people  aside,  striding 


SCAW  HOUSE  457 

with  great  steps  up  the  steep  cobbled  street  that  leads  out 
of  the  town,  on  to  the  Sea  Road. 

Here  on  the  Sea  Road  he  paused.  The  wind,  tearing, 
as  it  had  always  done,  round  the  corner  met  him  and  for 
a  moment  he  had  to  pull  himself  together  and  face  it.  He 
remembered,  too,  at  that  instant,  Norah  Monogue.  Where 
had  he  seen  her.''  What  had  brought  her  to  his  mind  quite 
lately.''  What  did  she  mean  by  interfering.'' — interfering? 
Then  he  remembered.  It  was  her  name  in  the  letter  rack. 
She  was  at  The  Man  at  Arms  ill.  Impatiently,  he  would 
have  driven  her  from  him,  but  all  the  way  down  the  Sea 
Road  she  kept  pace  with  him. 

"  I'm  done  with  her.  .  .  .  I'm  done  with  everybody. 
Damn  it  all,  one  keeps  thinking.  .  .  ." 

In  the  evening  light  the  sea  below  the  road  was  a  pale 
blue  and  near  the  shore  a  calm  green.  It  was  all  very 
peaceful.  The  water  lapped  the  shore,  the  Bell  Rock 
sighed  its  melancholy  note  across  space;  out  a  little  way, 
when  some  jagged  stones  sprang  like  shoulders  from  the 
blue,  gentle  waves  ringed  them  in  foam  like  lace  and  broke 
with  a  whisper  against  their  sides. 

Except  for  the  sea  there  was  absolute  silence.  Peter 
alone  seemed  to  walk  the  world.  As  he  strode  along  his 
excitement  increased  and  his  knees  trembled  and  his  eyes 
were  burning.  He  did  not  think  of  the  earlier  days  when 
he  had  walked  that  same  road.  That  was  another  existence 
that  had  nothing  to  do  with  him  as  he  was  now.  The  an- 
ticipation that  possessed  him  was  parallel  with  the  eager 
demand  of  the  opium-smoker.  "  Soon  I  shall  be  drugged. 
I'm  going  to  forget,  to  forget,  to  forget.  Just  to  let  my- 
self go — to  sink,  to  drown." 

He  had  still  with  him  the  consciousness  of  keeping  at 
bay  an  army  of  thoughts  that  would  leap  upon  him  if  he 
gave  them  an  opportunity.  But  soon  that  would  be  all  over 
— no  more  battle,  no  more  struggle.  He  turned  the  corner 
and  saw  Scaw  House  standing  amongst  its  dark  trees,  with 
its  black  palings  in  front  of  its  garden  and  the  deserted 
barren  patch  of  field  in  front  of  that  again.  The  sun  was 
getting  low  and  the  sky  above  the  house  was  flaming  but 
the  trees  were  sombre  and  the  house  was  cold. 

It  did  not  seem  to  him  to  have  changed  in  any  way  since 


458  FORTITUDE 

he  had  left  it.  The  •windows  had  always  been  of  a  grim 
hideous  glass,  the  stone  shape  of  the  place  always  squat 
and  ugly,  and  the  short  flight  of  steps  that  led  up  to  the 
heavy  beetling  door  had  always  hinted,  with  their  old  hard 
surface,  at  a  surly  •welcome  and  a  reluctant  courtesy.  It 
•was  all  as  it  had  been. 

The  sky,  now  a  burning  red,  looked  do^wn  up>on  an  utterly 
deserted  garden,  and  the  silence  that  was  over  all  the  place 
seemed  to  rise,  like  streaming  mist,  from  the  heart  of  the 
nettles  that  grew  thick  along  the  crumbling  wall. 

The  paint  had  faded  from  the  door  and  the  knocker  was 
rusty;  as  Peter  hammered  his  arrival  on  to  the  flat  silence 
a  bird  flew  from  the  black  bimch  of  trees,  whirred  into  the 
air  and  was  gone.  .  .  . 

For  a  long  time  after  the  echo  of  his  knock  had  faded 
away  there  was  silence,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  this  could 
be  only  anotlier  of  those  dreams — those  dreams  when  he  had 
stood  on  the  stone  steps  in  the  heart  of  the  deserted  garden 
and  woken  the  echoes  through  the  empty  house.  At  last 
there  •were  steps;  some  one  came  along  the  passage  and 
halted  on  the  other  side  of  the  door  and  listened.  They 
both  waited  on  either  side,  and  Peter  could  hear  heavy  thick 
breathing.  He  caught  the  knocker  again  and  let  it  go 
with  a  clang  that  seemed  to  startle  the  house  to  its  founda- 
tions. Then  he  heard  bolts,  very  slowly  drawn  back,  again 
a  pause  and  then,  stealthily  the  door  swung  open. 

A  scent  of  rotten  apples  met  him  as  tlie  door  opened,  a 
scent  so  strong  that  it  was  confused  at  once  with  his  vision 
of  the  woman  who  stood  there,  she,  with  her  gnarled  and 
puckered  face,  her  brown  skin  and  crooked  nose  standing, 
as  it  were,  for  an  actual  and  visible  personification  of  all 
the  rotten  apples  that  had  ever  been  in  the  world. 

He  recognised  also  a  sound,  the  drunken  hesitating  hic- 
cough of  the  old  clock  that  had  been  there  when  he  had  come 
in  that  evening  long  ago  ready  to  receive  his  l)eating,  that 
had  kept  pace  with  his  grandfather's  snorings  and  mutter- 
ings  and  had  seemed  indeed,  the  only  understanding  com- 
panion that  the  old  man  had  ever  had.  The  woman  was, 
he  saw,  the  arms-akimbo  ferocious  cook  of  the  old  days,  but 
now  how  wrinkled  and  infirm ! — separated  by  so  many 
more  years  than   the  lapse  of  time  allowed  her   from  the 


SCAW  HOUSE  459 

woman  of  his  past  appearance  there.     There  was  more  in    | 
her  than  the  mere  crumbling  of  her  body,  there  was  also   A 
the  crumbling  of  her  spirit,  and  he  saw  in  her  old  bleared     \ 
eyes  the  sign  of  some  fierce  battle  fought  by  her,  and  fought      > 
to  her  own  utter  defeat. 

In  her  eyes  he  saw  the  thing  that  his  father  had  be- 
come, .  .  . 

What  did  he  want,  she  asked  him,  coming  disturbing 
them  at  that  hour,  but  in  her  face  there  was,  he  fancied, 
something  more  than  the  surly  question  justified,  some  cu- 
riosity, some  eagerness  that  seemed  to  show  that  she  did 
not  have  many  visitors  here  and  that  their  company  might 
be  an  eager  relief. 

"  I'm  Peter  Westcott  and  I've  come  to  see  my  father." 

She  did  not  answer  this,  but  only,  with  her  hand  to  her 
breast  stood  back  a  little  and  watched  him  with  frightened 
eyes.  She  was  wearing  an  old,  faded,  green  blouse,  open 
at  her  scraggy  neck  and  her  skirt  was  a  kind  of  bed-quilt, 
odd  bits  of  stuffs  of  many  colours  stuck  together.  Her 
scanty  hair  was  pulled  into  a  bunch  on  the  top  of  her  head, 
her  face  where  it  was  not  brown  was  purple,  and  her  hands 
were  always  shaking  so  that  her  fingers  rattled  together 
like  twigs.  But  her  alarmed  and  startled  eyes  had  some 
appeal  that  made  one  pity  her  poor  battered  old  body. 

"  You  don't  remember  me,"  he  said,  looking  into  her 
frightened  eyes.     But  she  shook  her  head  slowly. 

"  You'd  much  better  have  kept  away,"  she  said. 

"Where  is  he?"  he  asked  her. 

She  shuffled  in  front  of  him  down  the  dark  hall.  Except 
for  this  strange  smell  of  rotting  apples  it  was  all  very  much 
as  it  had  been.  The  lamp  hanging  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs 
made  the  same  spluttering  noise  and  there  was  the  door 
of  the  room  that  had  once  been  his  grandfather's,  and  Peter 
fancied  that  he  could  still  see  the  old  man  swaying  there 
in  the  doorway,  laughing  at  his  son  and  his  grandson  as  they 
struggled  there  on  the  floor. 

The  woman  pushed  open  the  dining-room  door  and  Peter 
went  in. 

Peter's  first  thought  was  that  his  father  was  not  there. 
He  saw  standing  in  front  of  the  well-remembered  fire-place 
a  genial-looking  gentleman  clothed  in  a  crimson  dressing- 


460  FORTITUDE 

gown — a  bald  gentleman,  rather  fat,  with  a  piece  of  toast 
in  one  hand  and  a  glass  of  something  in  the  other.  Peter 
had  expected  he  knew  not  wliat — something  stern  and  ter- 
rible, something  that  would  have  answered  in  one  way  or 
another  to  those  early  recollections  of  terror  and  punish- 
ment that  still  dwelt  with  him.  He  had  remembered  his 
father  as  short,  spare,  black-haired,  grim,  pale — this  gen- 
tleman, who  was  now  watching  him,  bulged  in  the  cheeks 
and  the  stomach,  was  highly  coloured  with  purple  veins 
down  the  sides  of  his  nose  and  his  rather  podgy  hands 
trembled.  Nevertheless,  it  was  his  father.  When  the  red 
dressing-gown  spoke  it  was  in  a  kind  of  travesty  of  that 
old  sharp  voice,  those  cutting  icy  words — a  thickened  and 
degenerate  relation: 

"  My  boy !     At  last !  "  the  gentleman  said. 

The  room  presented  disorder.  On  the  table  were  scat- 
tered playing  cards,  a  chair  was  overturned,  under  the  cac- 
tus plant  lay  what  looked  like  a  fiddle,  and  the  only  two 
pictures  on  the  wall  were  very  indecent  old  drawings  taken 
apparently  from   some   Hogarthian  prints. 

Peter  stared  at  all  this  in  amazement.  It  was,  after  the 
grim  approach  and  the  deserted  garden,  like  finding  an 
Easter  egg  in  a  strong  box.  Peter  saw  that  his  father  was 
wearing  under  the  dressing-gown  a  white  waistcoat  and 
blue  trousers,  both  of  them  stained  with  dark  stains  and 
smelling  very  strongly  of  whisky.  He  noticed  also  that  his 
father  seemed  to  find  it  difficult  to  balance  himself  on  both 
his  legs  at  the  same  time,  and  that  he  was  continually 
shifting  his  feet  in  an  indeterminate  kind  of  way,  as  though 
he  would  like  to  dance  but  felt  that  it  might  not  be  quite 
the  thing. 

Mr.  Westcott  closed  up  both  his  eyes,  opened  his  mouth 
and  shut  it  again  and  shook  Peter  excitedly  by  the  hand. 
At  the  same  time  Peter  felt  that  his  father  was  shaking 
his  hand  as  much  because  he  wanted  to  hold  on  to  something 
as   for  reasons  of  courtesy. 

"  Well,  I  am  glad.  I  wondered  when  you  would  come 
to  see  your  poor  old  father  again — after  all  these  years. 
I've  often  thought  of  you  and  said  to  myself,  '  Well,  he'll 
come  back  one  day.  You  only  be  patient,'  I've  said  to 
myself,  '  and  your  son  will  come  back  to  you — your  only 


SCAW  HOUSE  461 

son,  and  it  isn't  likely  that  he's  going  to  desert  you  alto- 
gether.' " 

"  Yes,  father,  I've  come  back,"  said  Peter,  releasing  his 
hand.     "  I've  come  back  to  stay." 

He  thought  of  the  many  times  in  London  when  he'd  pic- 
tured his  father,  stern  and  dark,  pulling  the  wires,  drag- 
ging his  wicked  son  back  to  him — he  thought  of  that  .  .  . 
and  now  this.     And  yet.  .  .  . 

"  Well  now,  isn't  that  pleasant — you've  come  to  stay ! 
Could  I  have  wanted  anything  better.''  Come  and  sit  down 
■ — yes,  that  chair — and  have  something  to  drink.  What, 
you  won't?  Well,  perhaps  later.  So  you've  come  to  keep 
your  old  father  company,  have  you?  I'm  sure  that's  de- 
lightful. Just  what  a  son  ought  to  do.  We  shall  get  along 
very  well,  I'm  sure." 

AH  the  while  that  his  father  talked,  still  holding  the  toast 
and  the  glass  of  something,  Peter  was  intensely  conscious 
of  the  silent  listening  house.  After  all  that  grimness,  that 
desertion,  the  old  woman's  warning  had  gone  for  something. 
And  yet,  in  spite  of  a  kind  of  dread  that  hung  about  him, 
in  spite  of  a  kind  of  perception  that  there  was  a  great  deal 
more  in  his  father  than  he  at  present  perceived,  he  could 
not  resist  a  kind  of  warm  pleasure  that  here  at  any  rate 
was  some  sort  of  a  haven,  that  no  one  else  in  the  world 
might  want  him,  but  here  was  some  one  who  was  glad  to 
see  him. 

"  Well,  my  boy,  tell  me  all  you've  been  doing  these 
years." 

"  I've  been  in  London,  writing — " 

"  Dear,  dear — have  you  really  now  ?  And  how's  it  fill 
turned  out  ?  " 

"  Badly." 

"  Dear  me,  I'm  sorry  for  that.  But  there  are  better 
things  in  the  world  than  writing,  believe  me.  I  dare  say, 
my  boy,  you  thought  me  unkind  in  those  old  days  but  it 
was  all  for  your  best — oh  dear  me,  yes,  entirely  for  your 
best." 

Here,  for  an  instant,  his  father's  voice  sounded  so  like 
his  old  grandfather's  that  Peter  jumped. 

"  Married?  "   said  his   father. 

"  My  wife  has  left  me — " 


462  FORTITUDE 

"  Dear  me,  I  am  sorry  to  hear  that."  Mr.  Westcott 
finished  the  toast  and  wiped  his  fingers  on  a  very  old  and 
dirty  red  handkerchief.  "  Women — bless  them — angels  for 
a  time,  but  never  to  be  depended  on.  Poor  boy,  I'm  sorry. 
Children?  " 

"  I  had  a  son.     He  died." 

"  Well  now,  I  am  indeed  sorry,  I'd  have  liked  a  grand- 
son too.  Don't  want  the  old  W^estcott  stock  to  die  out. 
Dear  me,  that  is  a  pity." 

It  was  at  this  point  that  Peter  was  aware,  although  he 
could  not  have  given  any  reasonable  explanation  of  his 
certainty,  that  his  father  had  been  perfectly  assured  before- 
hand of  all  the  answers  to  these  questions.  Peter  looked 
at  the  man,  but  the  eyes  were  almost  closed,  and  the  smile 
that  played  about  the  weak  lips — once  so  stern  and  strong 
— told  one  nothing. 

It  was  dark  now.  Mr.  Westcott  got,  somewhat  un- 
steadily, to  his  feet. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "  I'll  show  you  the  house,  my  boy. 
Not  changed  much  since  you  were  here,  I'm  sure.  Wanted 
a  woman's  care  since  your  dear  mother  died  of  course — 
and  your  poor  old  grandfather — " 

He  whispered  over  again  to  himself  as  he  shuffled  across 
the  room — "your  poor  old  grandfather — " 

It  had  seemed  to  grow  very  suddenly  dark.  Outside  in 
the  hall,  under  the  spluttering  lamp,  Mr.  Westcott  found  a 
candle.     The  house  was  intensely  silent. 

As  they  climbed  the  stairs,  lighted  only  by  the  flickering 
candle-light,  Peter's  feelings  were  a  curious  mixture  of  un- 
easiness and  a  strange  unthinking  somnolence.  Some  part 
of  him,  somewhere,  was  urging  him  to  an  active  unrest — 
"  Norah  .  .  .  what  does  she  want  interfering.''  I'll  just 
go  and  see  her  and  come  back.  .  .  •  No,  I  won't,  I'll  just 
stay  here  .  .  .  never  to  bother  again  .  .  .  never  to  bother 
again.  .  .  ." 

He  was  also,  in  some  undefined  way,  expecting  that  at 
any  moment  his  father  would  change.  The  crimson  dress- 
ing-gown swayed  under  the  flickering  candle-light.  Let  !t 
turn  round  and  what  would  one  see  inside  it.^  His  father 
never  stopped  talking  for  an  instant — his  thick  wandering 
voice  was  the  only  sound  in  the  deserted  house. 


SCAW  HOUSE  463 

The  rooms  were  all  empty.  They  smelt  as  though  the 
windows  had  not  been  opened  for  years.  It  was  in  the 
little  room  that  had  once  been  his  bedroom  that  the  apples 
were  stored — piles  upon  piles  of  them  and  most  of  them 
rotten.     The  smell  was  all  over  the  house. 

Mr.  Westcott,  standing  with  the  apples  on  every  side  of 
him,  flung  monstrous  shadows  upon  the  wall — "  This  used 
to  be  your  room.  I  remember  I  used  to  whip  you  here 
when  you  were  disobedient.  The  only  way  to  bring  up 
your  child.  The  Westcotts  have  always  believed  in  it. 
Dear  me,  how  long  ago  it  all  seems  .  .  .  you  can  have  this 
room  again  if  you  like.  Any  room  in  the  house  you  please. 
We'll  be  very  good  company   for  one  another.  .  .  ." 

All  about  Peter  there  was  an  atmosphere  of  extraordinary 
languor — ^just  to  sit  here  and  let  the  days  slip  by,  the  years 
pass.  Just  to  stay  here  with  no  one  to  hurt  one,  no  need 
for  courage.  .  .  . 

They  were  out  in  the  long  passage.  Mr.  Westcott  came 
and  placed  his  hand  upon  Peter's  arm.  The  whole  house 
was  a  great  cool  place  where  one  slept.  Mr.  Westcott 
smiled  into  Peter's  face  .  .  .  the  house  was  silent  and  dark 
and  oh!  so  restful.  The  candle  swelled  to  an  enormous 
size — the  red  dressing-gown  seemed  to   enfold  Peter. 

In  another  moment  he  would  have  fallen  asleep  there 
where  he  stood.  With  the  last  struggle  of  a  drowning  man 
he  pulled  back  his  fading  senses. 

"  I  must  go  back  to  the  hotel  and  fetch  my  things."  He 
could  see  his  father's  eyes  that  had  been  wide  open  disap- 
pear. 

"  We  can  send  for  them." 

"  No,  I  must  go  for  them  myself — " 

For  a  moment  they  faced  one  another.  He  wondered 
what  his  father  intended  to  do.  Then — with  a  genial 
laugh,  Mr.  Westcott  said:  "  Well,  my  boy,  just  as  you  please 
— ^just  as  you  please.  I  know  you'll  come  back  to  your  old 
father — I  know  you'll  come  back — " 

He  blew  the  candle  out  and  put  his  arm  through  his 
son's  and  they  went  downstairs  together. 


CHAPTER  III 
NORAH  MONCXIUE 


PETER  found,  next  morning.  Miss  Monogue  sitting  by 
her  window.  She  gave  him  at  once  the  impression  of 
'  something  kept  alive  by  a  will-power  so  determined  that 
Death  himself  could  only  stand  aside  and  wait  until  it 
might  waver. 

She  was  so  thin  that  sitting  there  in  the  clear  white 
colours  of  the  sky  beyond  her  window  she  seemed  like  fine 
silk,  something  that,  at  an  instant's  breath,  would  be  swept 
like  a  shadow,  into  the  air.  She  wore  something  loose  and 
white  and  over  her  shoulders  there  was  a  grey  shawl.  Her 
grey  hair  was  as  untidy  as  of  old,  escaping  from  the  order 
that  it  had  been  intended  to  keep  and  falling  over  her 
beautiful  eyes,  so  that  continually  she  moved  her  hand — 
80  thin  and  white  with  its  deep  purple  veins — to  push  it 
back.  In  this  still  white  figure  the  eyes  burnt  with  an 
amazing  fire.     What  eyes  they  were ! 

One  seemed,  in  the  old  days,  to  have  denied  them  their 
proper  splendour,  but  now  in  this  swiftly  fading  body  they 
had  gathered  more  life  and  vigour,  showing  the  soul  that 
triumphed  over  so  slender  a  mortality. 

She  seemed  to  Peter,  as  he  came  into  the  room,  to  stand 
for  so  much  more  than  he  had  ever  hitherto  allowed  her. 
Here,  in  her  last  furious  struggle  to  keep  a  life  that  had 
given  to  her  nothing  worth  having,  he  saw  suddenly  em- 
blazoned about  him,  the  part  that  she  had  played  in  his 
life,  always  from  the  first  moment  that  he  had  known  her 
— ^a  part  that  had  been,  by  him,  so  frequently  neglected, 
so  frequently  denied. 

As  she  turned  and  saw  him  he  was  ashamed  at  the  joy 
that  his  coming  so  obviously  brought  her.  He  felt  her 
purity,  her  unselfishness,  her  single-heartedness,  her  cour- 
age, her  nobility  in  that  triumphant  welcome  that  she  gave 

464 


SCAW  HOUSE  465 

him.  That  she  should  care  so  much  for  any  one  so  worth- 
less, so  fruitless  as  he  had  proved  himself  to  be ! 

He  had  come  to  her  with  some  dim  sense  that  it  was 
kind  of  him  to  visit  her;  he  advanced  to  her  now  across 
the  room  with  a  consciousness  that  she  was  honouring  him 
by  receiving  him  at  all. 

That  joy,  with  which  she  had  at  first  greeted  him,  had 
in  it  also  something  of  surprise.  He  had  forgotten  how 
greatly  these  last  terrible  days  must  have  altered  his  ap- 
pearance— he  told  much  more  than  he  knew,  and  the  little 
sad  attempt  that  he  made,  as  he  came  to  her,  to  present  as 
careless  and  happy  an  appearance  as  he  had  presented  in 
the  old  Brockett  days  was  more  pathetic  and  betraying  than 
anything  he  could  have  done. 

But  she  just  closed  both  her  burning  hands  about  his 
cold  one,  made  him  sit  down  in  a  chair  by  her  side  and, 
trembling  with  the  excited  joy  of  having  him  with  her, 
forced  him  to  determine  that,  whatever  came  of  it,  he  would 
keep  his  troubles  from  her,  would  let  her  know  nothing  of 
his  old  chuckling  father  and  the  shadowy  welcome  that 
Scaw  House  had  flung  over  him,  would  be  still  the  Peter 
that  he  had  been  when  he  had  seen  her  last  in  London. 

"  Peter !  How  splendid  to  have  you  here !  When  Mr. 
Bannister  told  me  last  night  I  could  have  cried  for  happi- 
ness, and  he,  dear  little  man,  was  surely  as  pleased  to  see 
me  happy  as  though  I'd  been  his  own  sister." 

"  I'd  just  come  down — "  Peter  began,  trying  to  smile 
and  conscious  with  an  alarm  that  surprised  him,  of  her 
fragility  and  the  way  that  her  hand  went  now  and  again 
to  her  breast,  as  though  to  relieve  some  pain  there.  "  Are 
■^ou  sure — "  he  broke  off,  "  that  I'm  not  doing  you  harm 
coming  like  this — not  agitating  you  too  much,  not  exciting 
you.?" 

"  Harm !  Why,  Peter,"  she  was  smiling  but  he  noticed 
too  that  her  eyes  were  searching  his  face,  as  though  to 
find  some  clue  to  the  change  that  they  saw  there — "  Why 
it's  all  the  good  in  the  world.  It's  what  I've  been  wanting 
all  this  time.  Some  change,  a  little  excitement,  for  I've 
been  here,  you  know,  quite  a  number  of  weeks  alone — and 
that  it  should  be  you — you!  of  all  people  in  this  lovely  ex- 
citing surprising  world." 


466  FORTITUDE 

"How  did  it  happen?"  he  asked,  "  yonr  coining 
down? " 

"  After  I  saw  you  last — I  was  very  bad.  My  stupid  old 
heart.  .  .  .  And  the  doctor  said  that  I  must  get  away,  to 
the  sea  or  somewhere.  Then — what  do  you  think? — the 
dears,  all  of  them  in  Brockett's  put  their  heads  together 
and  got  me  quite  a  lot  of  money.  .  .  .  Oh !  the  darlings, 
and  they  just  as  j>oor  as  church  mice  themselves.  Of  course 
I  couldn't  insult  them  by  not  taking  it.  They'd  have  been 
hurt  for  ever — so  I  just  pocketed  my  pride  and  came  down 
here." 

"Why  Treliss?"  asked  Peter. 

"Well,  hadn't  you  so  often  talked  about  it?  Always, 
I'd  connected  you  with  it  in  my  mind  and  thought  that  one 
day  I'd  come  down  and  see  it.  I  suggested  it  to  the  doctor 
— he  said  it  was  the  very  place.  I  used  to  hope  that  one 
day  you'd  be  with  me  here  to  explain  it,  but  I  never  ex- 
pected it  .  .  .  not  so  soon  .  .  .  not  like  this." 

Her  voice  faltered  a  little  and  her  hand  held  his  more 
tightly. 

They  were  silent.  The  sounds  of  the  world  came,  muf- 
fled, up  to  their  window,  but  they  were  only  conscious  of 
one  another. 

Peter  knew  that,  in  another  instant,  he  would  tell  her 
everything.  He  had  always  told  her  everything — that  is 
what  she  had  been  there  for,  some  one,  like  an  elder  sister, 
to  whom  he  might  go  and  confess. 

At  last  it  came.     Very  softly  she  asked  him: 

"Peter,  what's  the  matter?  Why  are  you  here? 
What's   happened  ?  " 

Staring  before  him  out  of  the  window,  seeing  nothing 
bn'.  the  high  white  light  of  the  upper  sky,  his  heart,  as  it 
seemed  to  him,  lying  in  his  hands  like  a  stone  to  be  tossed 
lightly  out  there  into  space,  he  told  her: 

"  Everything's  happened.  Clare  has  run  off  with  my 
best  friend.  ...  It  has  just  happened  like  that.  I  don't 
blame  her,  she  liked  him  better — but  I — didn't  know — it 
was  going  ...  to  happen." 

He  didn't  look  nt  her,  but  he  heard  her  catch  her  breath 
•harply  and  he  folt  her  hand  tighten  on  his.  They  were 
lilent   for  a   long  time  and  he   was  dimly  aware  in  some 


SCAW  HOUSE  46*^ 

unanalysed  way  that  this  was  what  she  had  expected  ever 
since  he  had  come  into  the  room. 

"  Oh !  "  she  said  at  last,  holding  his  hand  very  tightly, 
"  I'm  sorry,  I'm  sorry — " 

He  had  seen,  of  course,  from  the  beginning  that  this 
business  must  be  told  her,  but  his  one  desire  was  to  hurry 
through  it,  to  get  it  done  and  banished,  once  and  for  all, 
from  their  conversation. 

"  It  happened,"  he  went  on  gruffly,  "  quite  suddenly.  I 
wasn't  in  any  way  prepared  for  it.  She  just  went  off  to 
Paris,  after  leaving  a  letter.  With  the  death  of  the  boy 
and  the  failure  of  my  book — it  just  seemed  the  last  blow — 
the  end." 

"  The  end — at  thirty  ?  "  she  said  softly,  almost  to  her- 
self, "  surely,  no — with  the  pluck  that  you've  got — and  the 
health.     What  are  you  going  to  do — about  it  all .''  " 

"  To  do-f*  "  he  smiled  bitterly.  "  Do  you  suppose  that  I 
will  ask  her  to  come  back  to  me?  Do  you  suppose  that 
I  want  her  back.f*  No,  that's  all  done  with.  All  that  life's 
finished."  Then  he  added  slowly,  not  looking  at  her  as 
he  spoke — "  I'm  going  to  live  with  my  father." 

He  remembered,  clearly  enough,  that  he  had  told  her 
many  things  about  his  early  life  at  Scaw  House.  He  knew 
that  she  must  now,  as  he  flvmg  that  piece  of  information  at 
her,  have  recalled  to  herself  all  those  things  that  he  had 
told  her.  He  felt  rather  than  perceived,  the  agitation  that 
seized  her  at  those  last  words  of  his.  Her  hand  slowly 
withdrew  from  his,  it  fell  back  on  to  her  lap  and  he  felt 
her  whole  body  draw,  as  it  were,  into  itself,  as  though  it 
had  come  into  contact  with  some  terror,  some  unexplained 
alarm. 

But  she  only  said: 

"  And  what  will  you  do  at  home,  Peter  ?  " 

He  answered  her  with  a  kind  of  bravado — "  Oh,  write, 
I  suppose.  I  went  up  to  see  the  old  man  yesterday. 
Changed  enormously  since  the  old  days.  I  found  him 
quite  genial,  seemed  very  anxious  that  I  should  come.  I 
expect  he's  a  bit  lonely." 

She  did  not  answer  this  and  there  was  a  long  awkward 
pause.  He  knew,  as  they  sat  there,  in  troubled  silence 
thai  his   conscience  was  awake.     It  had  seemed  to  be  ^9 


468  FORTITUDE 

quiescent  through  his  visit  yesterday;  it  had  been  drugged 
and  dimmed  all  these  last  restless  days.  But  now  it  was 
up  again.  He  was  conscious  that  it  was  not,  after  all, 
going  to  be  so  easy  a  thing  to  abandon  all  his  energies,  his 
militancies,  the  dominant  vigorous  panoply  of  his  soul.  He 
knew  as  he  sat  there,  that  this  sick  shadow  of  a  woman 
would  not  let  him  go  like  that. 

He  said  good-bye  to  her  for  the  moment,  but,  as  he  left 
the  room  he  knew  that  Scaw  House  would  not  see  him  again 
until  he  had  done  everything  for  her  that  there  was  to  be 
done. 


That  evening  he  saw  the  doctor  who  attended  on  her. 
He  was  a  nice  young  fellow,  intelligent,  eager,  with  a  very 
real  individual  liking  for  his  patient  "  Ah !  she's  splendid 
— brave  and  plucky  beyond  anything  I've  ever  seen;  so 
full  of  fun  that  you'd  think  that  she'd  an  idea  that  another 
three  weeks  would  see  her  as  well  as  ever  again — whereas 
she  knows  as  well  as  I  do  that  another  three  weeks  may 
easily  see  her  out  of  the  world  altogether !  " 

"  There's  no  hope  then  ?  "  asked  Peter. 

"  None  whatever.  There's  every  kind  of  complication. 
She  must  have  always  had  something  the  matter  with  her, 
and  if  she'd  been  cared  for  and  nursed  when  she  was 
younger  she  might  have  pulled  out  of  it.  Instead  of  that 
she's  always  worn  herself  to  a  thread — you  can  see  that. 
She  isn't  one  of  those  who  take  life  easily.  She  ought  to 
have  gone  before  this,  but  she  holds  on  with  her  pluck  and 
her  love  of  it  all.  .  .  .  Lord !  when  one  thinks  of  the  mil- 
lions of  people  who  just  'slug'  through  life — not  valuing 
it,  doing  nothing  with  it — one  grudges  the  waste  of  their 
hours  when  a  woman  like  Miss  Monogue  could  have  done 
so  much  with  them." 

"  Am  I  doing  her  any  harm,  going  in  to  see  her?  " 

"  No — doing  her  good.  Don't  excite  her  too  much — 
otherwise  the  company's  the  best  thing  in  the  world  for 
her." 

The  days  then,  were  to  be  dedicated  to  her  service.  He 
knew,  of  course,  that  at  the  end  of  it — and  the  end  could 


SCAW  HOUSE  469 

not  be  far  distant — he  would  go  to  Scaw  House  and  remain 
there;  meanwhile  the  thing  was  postponed.  He  would  not 
think   about  it. 

But  on  his  second  meeting  with  Norah  Monogue  he  saw 
that  he  was  not  to  be  allowed  to  dismiss  it.  He  found 
her  sitting  still  by  her  window;  she  was  flushed  now  with 
a  little  colour,  her  eyes  burning  with  a  more  determined  fire 
than  ever,  her  whole  body  expressing  a  dauntless  energy. 

The  sight  of  her  showed  him  that  there  was  to  be  battle 
and,  strangely  enough,  he  found  that  there  was  something 
in  himself  that  almost  welcomed  it.  Before  he  knew  where 
he  was  he  found  that  he  was  "  out  "  to  defend  his  whole 
life. 

The  first  thing  that  she  did  was  to  draw  from  him  a 
minute,  particular  account  of  all  that  had  happened  during 
these  last  months.  It  developed  into  a  defence  of  his  whole 
married  life,  as  though  he  had  been  pleading  before  a  jury 
of  Clare's  friends  and  must  fight  to  prove  himself  no  black- 
guard. 

"  Ah !  don't  I  know  that  I've  made  a  mess  of  it  all  ? 
Do  you  think  that  I'm  proud  of  myself.''  "  he  pleaded  with 
her.  "  Honestly  I  cannot  see  where,  as  far  as  Clare  is 
concerned,  I'm  to  blame.  She  didn't  understand — how 
could  she  ever  have  understood? — the  way  that  my  work 
mattered  to  me.  I  wanted  to  keep  it  and  I  wanted  to  keep 
her  too,  and  every  time  I  tried  to  keep  her  it  got  in  the 
way  and  every  time  I  tried  to  keep  it  she  got  in  the  way. 
I  wasn't  clever  enough  to  run  both  together." 

Norah  nodded  her  head. 

"  But  there  was  more  than  that.  Life  has  always  been 
rough  for  me.  Rough  from  the  beginning  when  my  father 
used  to  whip  me,  rough  at  school,  rough  when  I  starved  in 
London,  roughest  of  all  when  young  Stephen  died.  I'd 
wanted  to  make  something  out  of  it  and  I  suppose  the 
easiest  way  seemed  to  me  to  make  it  romantic.  This  place, 
you  know,  was  always  in  my  bones.  That  Tower  down  in 
the  Market  Place,  old  Tan's  curiosity  shop,  the  sea — these 
were  the  things  that  kept  me  going.  Afterwards  in  Lon- 
don it  was  the  same.  Things  were  hard  so  I  made  them 
into  a  story — I  coloured  them  up.  Nothing  hurt  when 
everything  was  romance.     I  made  Clare  romance  too — that 


470  FORTITUDE 

was  the  'way,  you  see,  that  all  my  life  was  bound  up  so 
closely  together.  She  was  an  adventure  just  as  everything 
else  had  been.  And  she  didn't  like  it.  She  couldn't  un- 
derstand the  Adventure  point  of  view.  It  was,  to  her,  im- 
moral, indecent.  I  went  easily  along  and  then,  one  day, 
all  the  romance  went  out  of  it — clean — like  a  pricked  bub- 
ble. When  young  Stephen  died  I  suddenly  saw  that  life 
was  real — naked — ugly,  not  romantic  a  bit.  Then  it  all 
fell  to  pieces  like  a  house  of  cards.  It's  easy  enough  to 
be  brave  when  you're  attacking  a  cardboard  castle — it's 
when  you're  up  against  iron  that  your  courage  is  wanted. 
It  failed  me.     I've  funked  it.     I'm  going  to  run  away." 

He  could  see  that   Norah  Monogue's  whole  life  was  in 
the  vigour  with  which  she  opposed  him — 

"  No,  no,  no.  To  give  it  up  now.  Why,  you're  only 
thirty — everything's  in  front  of  you.  Listen.  I  know  you 
took  Clare  crookedly,  I  saw  it  in  the  beginning.  In  the  first 
place  you  loved  her,  but  you  loved  her  wrong.  You've 
been  a  boy,  Peter,  all  the  time,  and  you've  always  loved  like 
a  boy.  Don't  you  know  that  there's  nothing  drives  a  woman  ^ 
/  who  loves  a  man  more  to  desperation  than  that  that  man  I 
I  should  give  her  a  boy's  love?  She'd  rather  he  hated  her.  / 
V  Clare  could  have  been  dealt  with.  To  begin  with  she  loved 
you — all  the  time.  Oh!  yes,  I'm  as  certain  of  it  as  I  can 
be  of  anything.  I  know  her  so  well.  But  the  unhappiness, 
the  discomfort — all  the  things,  the  ugly  things,  that  her 
mother  was  emphasising  to  her  all  the  time — frightened 
her.  Knowing  nothing  about  life  she  just  felt  that  things 
as  they  were  were  as  bad  as  things  could  be.  It  seems 
\  extraordinary  that  any  one  so  timid  as  she  should  dare  to 
take  so  dangerous  a  plunge  as  running  off  to  another  man. 
"  But  it  was  just  because  she  knew  so  little  about  Life 
that  she  could  do  it.  This  other  man  persuaded  her  that 
he  could  give  her  the  peace  and  comfort  that  you  couldn't. 
She  doesn't  know — poor  thing,  poor  thing — what  it  will 
mean,  that  plunge.  So,  out  of  very  terror,  she  took  it. 
And  now — Oh!  Peter,  I'm  as  certain  as  though  I  could  see 
her,  she's  already  longing  for  you — would  give  anything  to 
get  back  to  you.  This  has  taught  her  more  than  all  the 
rest  of  her  life  put  together.  She  was  difficult — selfish, 
frightened  at  any  trouble,  supersensitive — but  a  man  would 


SCAW  HOUSE  471 

have  understood  her.  You  wanted  affection,  Peter — from 
her,  from  me,  from  a  lot  of  people — but  it  was  always  be- 
cause of  the  things  that  it  was  going  to  bring  to  you,  never 
because  of  the  things  that  you  were  going  to  give  out. 
You'd  never  grown  up — never.  And  now,  when  suddenly 
the  real  world  has  come  to  you,  you're  going  to  give  it  up." 

"  I  don't  give  it  up,"  he  said  to  her — "  I  shall  write — -I 
shall  do  things — " 

She  shook  her  head.  "  You've  told  me.  I  know  what 
that  means."  Then  almost  below  her  breath — "  It's  horri- 
ble— It's  horrible.  You  mustn't  do  it — you  must  go  back 
to  London — you  must  go  back — " 

But  at  that  he  rose  and  faced  her. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I  will  not.  I've  given  the  other  things 
a  chance — all  these  years  I've  given  them  a  chance.  I've 
stood  everything  and  at  the  end  everything's  taken  away 
from  me.  What  shall  I  go  back  to?  Who  wants  me? 
Who  cares  ?  God !  "  he  cried,  standing  there,  white- faced, 
dry-eyed,  almost  defying  her — "  Why  should  I  go  ?  Just 
to  fail  again — to  suffer  all  that  again — to  have  them  take 
everything  I  love  from  me  again — to  be  broken  again!  No, 
let  them  break  the  others — I'm  done  with  it.  .  .  ." 

"  And  the  others  ?  "  she  answered  him.  "  Is  it  to  be 
always  yourself?  You've  fought  for  your  own  hand  and 
they've  beaten  you  to  your  knees — fight  now  for  some- 
thing finer — " 

She  seemed  as  she  appealed  to  him  to  be  shining  with 
some  great  conquering  purpose.  Here,  with  her  poor  body 
broken  and  torn,  her  spirit,  the  purer  for  her  physical  pain,' 
confronted  him,  shamed  him,  stretched  like  a  flaming  sword 
before  the  mean  paths  that  his  own  soul  would  follow. 

But  he  beat  her  down.  "  I  will  not  go  back — ^you  don't 
know — ^you  don't  understand — I  will  not  go." 

Ill 

The  little  dusty  Minstrels'  Gallery  saw  a  good  deal  of 
him  during  these  days.  It  was  a  lonely  place  at  the  top  of 
the  hotel,  once  intended  to  be  picturesque  and  romantic  for 
London  visitors,  but  ultimately  left  to  its  own  company 
with  its  magnificent  view  appreciated  by  no  one. 


47^  FORTITUDE 

Here  Peter  came.  Every  part  of  him  now  seemed  to 
be  at  war  with  every  other  part.  Had  he  gone  straight 
to  Scaw  House  with  bag  and  baggage  and  never  left  it 
again,  then  the  Westcott  tradition  might  have  caught  him 
when  he  was  in  that  numbed  condition — caught  him  and 
held  him. 

Now  he  had  stayed  away  just  long  enough  for  all  the 
old  Peter  to  have  become  alive  and  active  again. 

He  looked  back  upon  London  with  a  great  shuddering. 
The  torment  that  he  had  suffered  there  he  must  never 
imdergo  again.  Norah  was  now  the  one  friend  left  to  him 
in  the  world.  He  would  cut  himself  into  pieces  to  make 
these  last  days  of  hers  happy,  and  yet  the  one  thing  that 
could  give  her  happiness  was  that  he  should  promise  to  go 
back. 

She  did  not  understand — no  one  could  understand — the 
way  that  this  place,  this  life  that  he  contemplated,  pulled 
him.  The  slackness  of  it,  the  lack  of  discipline  in  it,  the 
absence  of  struggle  in  it.  All  the  strength,  the  fighting 
that  had  been  in  him  during  these  past  years,  was  driven 
out  of  him  now.  He  just  wanted  to  let  things  drift — to 
wander  about  the  fields  and  roads,  to  find  his  clothes 
growing  shabby  upon  him,  to  grow  old  without  knowing 
even  that  he  was  alive — all  this  had  come  to  him. 

She,  on  the  other  side,  would  drive  him  back  into  the 
battle  of  it  all  once  more.  To  go  back  a  failure — to  be 
pointed  out  as  the  man  whose  wife  left  him  because  she 
found  him  so  dull — to  hear  men  like  young  Percival  Gal- 
leon laughing  at  his  book — to  sell  his  soul  for  journalism 
in  order  to  make  a  living — to  see,  perhaps,  Clare  come  back 
into  the  London  world — to  break  out,  ultimately,  when  he 
was  sick  and  tired  of  it  all,  into  every  kind  of  debauch 
.  .  .  how  much  better  to  slip  into  nothing  down  here  where 
nobody  knew  nor  cared ! 

And  yet,  on  the  other  hand,  he  had  never  known  until 
now  the  importance  that  Norah  Monogue  had  held  in  his 
Ufe. 

Always,  in  everything  he  had  done,  in  his  ambitions  and 
despairs,  his  triumphs  and  defeats,  she  had  been  behind 
him.  He'd  just  do  anything  in  the  world  for  her! — any- 
thing except  this  one  thing.     Up  and  down,  up  and  down 


SCAW  HOUSE  473 

he  paced  the  little  Minstrels'  room,  with  its  dusty  green 
chair  and  its  shining  floor — "I  just  can't  stand  it  all  over 
again !  " 

But  every  time  that  he  went  in  to  see  her — and  he  was 
with  her  continually — made  his  resistance  harder.  She 
didn't  speak  about  it  again  but  he  knew  that  she  was  al- 
ways  thinking   about   it. 

"  She's  worrying  over  something,  Westcott — do  you  hap- 
pen to  know  what  it  is.''"  the  doctor  asked  him.  "It's 
bad  for  her.     If  you  can  help  her  about  it  in  any  way — " 

The  strain  between  them  was  becoming  unbearable. 
Every  day,  when  he  went  in  to  sit  with  her,  they  would  talk 
about  other  things — about  everything — but  he  knew  that 
before  her  eyes  there  was  that  picture  of  himself  up  at 
Scaw  House,  and  of  the  years  passing — and  his  soul  and 
everything  that  was  fine  in  him,  dying. 

He  saw  her  growing  daily  weaker.  Sometimes  he  felt 
that  he  must  run  away  altogether,  go  up  to  Scaw  House 
and  leave  her  to  die  alone;  then  he  knew  that  that  cruelty 
at  any  rate  was  not  in  him.  One  day  he  thought  her  brutal 
and  interfering,  another  day  it  seemed  that  it  was  he  who 
was  the  tyrant.  He  reminded  himself  of  all  the  things  that 
she  had  done  for  him — all  the  things,  and  he  could  not  grant 
her  this  one  request. 

Then  he  would  ask  himself  what  the  devil  her  right  was 
that  she  should  order  his  life  in  this  way.^*  .  .  .  every  day 
the   struggle    grew   harder. 

The  tension  could  not  hold  any  longer — at  last  it  broke. 

IV 

One  evening  they  were  sitting  in  silence  beside  her  win- 
dow. The  room  was  in  dusk  and  he  could  just  see  her 
white  shadow  against  the  dim  blue  light  beyond  the  window. 

Suddenly  she  broke  down.  He  could  hear  her  crying, 
behind  her  hands.  The  sound  in  that  grey,  silent  room 
was  more  than  he  could  bear.  He  went  over  to  her  and 
put  his  arms  round  her. 

"  Norah,  Norah,  please,  please.  It's  so  awfully  bad  for 
you.     I  oughtn't  to  come  if  I — " 

She  pulled  herself  together.  Her  voice  was  quite  calm 
and  controlled. 


474  FORTITUDE 

"  Sit  over  there,  Peter.     I've  got  to  talk  to  you." 

He  went  back  to  his   chair. 

"  I've  only  got  a  few  more  weeks  to  live.  I  know  it. 
Perhaps  only  a  few  more  days.  I  must  make  the  very 
utmost  of  my  time.     I've  got  to  save  you.  .  .  .'* 

He  said  nothing. 

"  Oh !  I  know  that  it  must  all  have  seemed  to  you 
abominable — as  though  I  were  making  use  of  this  illness 
of  mine  to  extort  a  promise  from  you,  as  though  just  be- 
cause I'm  weak  and  feeble  I  can  hold  an  advantage  over 
you.  Oh!  I  know  it's  all  abominable! — but  I'll  use  every- 
thing— yes,  simply  everything — if  I  can  get  you  to  leave 
this  place  and  go  back !  " 

He  could  feel  that  she  was  pulling  herself  together  for 
some  tremendous  effort. 

"  Peter,  I  want  you  now  just  to  think  of  me,  to  put 
yourself  out  of  everj'thing,  absolutely,  just  for  this  half- 
hour.  After  all  as  I've  only  a  few  half-hours  left  I've 
got  that  right." 

Her  laugh  as  she  said  it  was  one  of  the  saddest  things 
he'd  ever  heard. 

'*  Now  I'm  going  to  tell  you  something — something  that 
I'd  never  thought  I'd  tell  a  soul. 

"  I've  not  had  a  very  cheerful  life.  It  hasn't  had  very 
much  to  make  it  bright  and  interesting.  I'm  not  complain- 
ing but  it's  just  been  that  way — "  She  broke  off  for  a 
moment.  "  I  don't  want  you  to  interrupt  or  say  anything. 
It'll  make  it  easier  for  me  if  I  can  just  talk  out  into  the 
night  air,  as  it  were — just  as  though  no  one  were  here." 

She  went  on:  "The  one  thing  that's  made  it  possible, 
made  it  bearable,  made  it  alive,  has  been  my  love  for  you. 
Always  from  the  first  moment  I  saw  you  I  have  loved  you. 
Oh!  I  haven't  been  foolish  about  it.  I  knew  that  you'd 
never  care  for  me  in  that  kind  of  way.  I  knew  from  the 
very  first  that  we  should  be  pals  but  that  you'd  never  dream 
of  anything  more  romantic.  I've  never  had  any  one  in 
loTC  with  me — I'm  not  the  kind  of  woman  who  draws  the 
romance  out  of  men. 

"  No,  I  knew  you'd  never  love  me,  but  I  just  determined 
that  I'd  make  you,  your  career,  your  success,  the  pivot, 
the  centre  of  my  life. 


SCAW  HOUSE  4f76 

"  I  wasn't  blind  about  you — not  a  bit.     I  knew  that  you 

were  selfish,  weak,  incredibly  young  about  the   world.     I 

knew  that  you  were  the  last  person  in  existence  to  marry 

Clare — all  the  more  reason  it  seemed  to  me  why  I  should 

be  behind  you.     I  was  behind  you  so  much  more  than  you 

ever  knew.     I   wonder  if  you've  the  least  idea  what  most""" 

('  women's   lives   are   like.     They   come  into   the  world  with 

\  the  finest  ideals,  the  most  tremendous  energies,  with  a  de- 

I  sire  for  self-sacrifice  that  a  man  can't  even  begin  to  under- 

1  stand.     Then  they  discover  slowly  that  none  of  those  things, 

I  those   ideals,   those   energies,   those   sacrifices,   are   wanted^ 

I  The  world  just  doesn't  need  them — they  might  as  well  never 

l-^ave  been   born.     Do  you  suppose   I    enjoyed  slaving  for 

my  mother,  day  and  night  for  years  .»*     Do  you  suppose  that 

I  gladly  yielded  up  all  my  best  blood,  my  vitality,  to  the 

i    pleasure  of  some  one  who  never  valued  it,  never  even  knew 

1    that  such  things  were  being  given  her.''     Before  you  came 

i     I  was  slowly  falling  into  despair.     Think  of  all  the  women 

\    who   are   haunted   by  the   awful  thought — '  The   time   will 

;    come  when  death  will  be  facing  me  and  I  shall  be  forced 

to  own  that  for  any  place  that  I  have  ever  filled  in  the 

world  I  might  never  have  been  born.*     How  many  women 

are  there  who  do  not  pray  every  day  of  their  lives,  '  God,      \ 

give  me  something  to  do  before  I  die — some  place  to  fill, 

some  work  to  carry  out,  something  to  save  my  self-respect.' 

"  I   tell  you  that  there  is   a  time   coming  when  women 

will  force  those  things  that  are  in  them  upon  the  world. 

God  help  all  poor  women  who  are  not  wanted! 

"  /  wasn't  wanted.  There  was  nothing  for  me  to  do,  no 
place  for  me  to  fill  .  .  .  then  you  came.  At  once  I  seized 
upon  that — God  seemed  to  have  sent  it  to  me.  I  believed 
that  if  I  turned  all  those  energies,  those  desires,  those  am- 
bitions upon  you  that  it  would  help  you  to  do  the  things 
that  you  were  meant  to  do.  I  was  with  you  always — I 
slaved  for  you — you  became  the  end  in  life  to  which  I  had 
been  called. 

"  All  the  time  you  were  only  a  boy — that  was  partly  I 
think  why  I  loved  you.  You  were  so  gauche,  so  ignorant, 
so  violent,  so  confident  one  moment,  so  plunged  into  despai* 
the  next.  For  a  while  everything  seemed  to  go  well.  I  had 
thought  that  Clare  was  going  to  be  good  for  you,  was  going 


476  FORTITUDE 

to  make  you  unselfish.  I  thought  that  you'd  got  the  better 
of  all  that  part  of  you  that  was  your  inheritance.  Even 
when  I  came  down  here  I  thought  that  all  was  well.  I 
knew  that  I  had  come  down  to  die  and  I  had  thanked  God 
because  He  had,  after  all,  allowed  me  to  make  something 
of  my  hfe,  that  I'd  been  able  to  see  you  lifted  into  success, 
that  I'd  seen  you  start  a  splendid  career.  .  .  .  Then  you 
came  and  I  knew  that  your  life  was  broken  into  pieces.  I 
knew  that  what  had  happened  to  you  might  be  the  most 
splendid  thing  in  the  world  for  you  and  might  be  the  most 
terrible.  If  you  stay  down  here  now  with  your  father  then 
you  are  done  for — you  are  done  for  and  my  life  has,  after 
all,  gone  for  nothing." 

Her  voice  broke,  then  she  leaned  forward,  catching  his 
hands : 

"  Peter,  I'm  dying — I'm  going.  If  you  will  only  have 
it  you  can  take  me,  and  when  I  am  gone  I  shall  still  live 
on  in  you.  Let  me  give  you  everything  that  is  best  in  me 
— let  me  feel  that  I  have  sent  you  back  to  London,  sent 
you  with  my  dying  breath — and  that  you  go  back,  not  be- 
cause of  yourself  but  because  of  everything  that  you  can  do 
for  every  one  else. 

"  Believe  me,  Peter  dear,  it  all  matters  so  little,  this 
trouble  and  unhappiness  that  you've  had,  if  you  take  it 
bravely.  The  courage  that  you've  wanted  before  is  noth- 
ing to  the  courage  that  you  want  now  if  you're  going  back. 
Let  me  die  knowing  that  we're  both  going  back. 

"  Think  of  what  your  life,  if  it's  fine  enough,  can  mean 
to  other  people,  f  Go  back  to  be  battered — never  mind  what 
happens  to  your  body — any  one  can  stand  that.  There's 
London  waiting  for  you,  there's  hfe  and  adventure  and 
hardship.  There  are  people  to  be  helped.  You'll  go,  with 
all  that  I  can  give  you,  behind  you  .  .  .  you'll  go,  Peter.''  " 

He  sat   with   his   teeth   set,  staring  out  into  the   world. 

He   had   known   from  the   first   sentence  of  her  appeal  to 

him  that  she  had  named  the  one  thing  that  could  give  him 

courage  to  fight  his  cowardice.     Some  one  had  once  said :  v 

/"  "  If  any  one  soul  of  us  is  all  the  world,  this  world  and  the    \ 

/     next,  to  any  other  soul,  then  whoever  it  may  be  that  thus       I 

I     loves  us,  the  inadequacy  of  our  return,  the  hopeless  debt       I 


( 


( 


SCAW  HOUSE  47^ 

of  us,  must  strike  us  to  our  knees  with  an  utter  humility."        | 

So  did  he  feel  now.  Out  of  the  wreck  there  had  survived 
this  one  thing.  He  remembered  what  Henry  Galleon  had 
once  said  about  Fortitude,  that  the  hardest  trial  of  all  tQ„ 
bear  was  the  consciousness  of  having  missed  the  Finest 
Thing.  All  these  years  she  had  been  there  by  the  side  of 
fiim  and  he  had  scarcely  thought  of  her — now,  even  as  he 
watched  her,  she  was  slipping  away  from  him,  and  soon 
he  would  be  left  alone  with  the  consciousness  of  missing  j 
the  greatest  chance  of  his  life. 

The  one  thing  that  he  could  do  in  return  was  to  give  her 
what  she  asked.  But  it  was  hard — he  was  under  no  il- 
lusion as  to  the  desperate  determination  that  it  would  de- 
mand. The  supreme  moment  of  his  life  had  come.  For 
the  first  time  he  was  going  to  fling  away  the  old  Peter 
Westcott  altogether.  He  could  feel  it  clinging  to  him. 
About  him,  in  the  air,  spirits  were  fighting.  He  had  never 
before  needed  Courage  as  he  was  needing  it  now.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  he  had  to  stand  up  to  all  the  devils  in  the  world 
— they  were  thick  on  every  side  of  him. 

Then,  with  a  great  uplifting  of  strength,  with  a  courage 
that  he  had  never  known  before,  he  picked  up  Peter  West- 
cott in  his  hands,  held  him,  that  miserable  figure,  high  in 
air,  raised  him,  then  flung  him  with  all  his  strength,  out, 
away,  far  into  space,  never  to  return,  never  to  encumber 
the  earth  again. 

"  I'll  go  back,"  Peter  said — and  as  he  said  it,  there  was 
no  elation  in  him,  only  a  clear-sighted  vision  of  a  life  of 
struggle,  toil,  torment,  defeat,  in  front  of  him,  something 
so  hard  and  arduous  that  the  new  Peter  Westcott  that  had 
now  been  born  seemed  small  indeed  to  face  it. 

But  nevertheless  he  knew  that  at  the  moment  that  he 
said  those  words  he  had  broken  into  pieces  the  spell  that 
had  been  over  him  for  so  many  years.  That  Beast  in  him 
that  had  troubled  him  for  so  long,  all  the  dark  shadows  of 
Scaw  House  .  .  .  these  were  at  an  end. 

He  felt  tired,  discouraged,  no  fine  creature,  as  he  turned 
to  her,  but  he  knew  that,  from  that  moment,  a  new  life  had 
begun  for  him. 

He  put  his  arms  round  Norah  Monogue  and  kissed  her. 


478  FORTITUDE 


He  got  up  very  early  next  morning  and  went  down  to 
the  Harbour.  The  fishing-boats  were  coming  in;  great 
flocks  of  gulls,  waiting  for  the  spoil  that  was  soon  to  be 
theirs,  were  wheeling  in  clouds  about  the  brown  sails. 

The  boats  stole,  one  after  another,  around  the  pier.  The 
air  was  filled  with  shrill  cries — the  only  other  sound  was  the 
lapping  of  the  water  as  it  curled  up  the  little  beach. 

As  Peter  stood  there  there  crept  upon  him  a  sensation 
of  awe.  He  took  off  his  hat.  The  gulls  seemed  to  cease 
their  cries. 

As  another  brown  sail  stole  round  the  white  point,  gleam- 
ing now  in  the  sun,  he  knew,  with  absolute  certainty,  that 
Norah  Monogue  was  dead. 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE  GREY  HILL 


THE  day  of  Norah  Monogue's  funeral  was  fine  and 
clear.  Peter  and  little  Mr.  Bannister  were  the  only 
mourners  and  it  was  Peter's  wish  that  she  should  be  buried 
in  the  little  windy  graveyard  of  the  church  where  his 
mother  had  been  buried. 

There  was  always  a  wind  on  that  little  hill,  but  to-day 
it  was  gentler  than  he  had  ever  known  it  before.  His 
mind  went  back  to  that  other  funeral,  now,  as  it  seemed, 
such  a  lifetime  ago.  Out  of  all  the  world  these  two  women 
only  now  seemed  to  abide  with  him.  As  he  stood  beside  the 
grave  he  was  conscious  that  there  was  about  him  a  sense 
of  peace  and  rest  such  as  he  had  never  known  before. 
Could  it  be  true  that  some  of  Norah  Monogue's  fine  spirit 
had  come  to  him.''  Were  they,  in  sober  fact  to  go  on  to- 
gether during  the  remainder  of  his  days? 

He  lingered  for  a  little  looking  down  upon  the  grave. 
He  was  glad  to  think  that  he  had  made  her  last  hours  happy. 

Indeed  she  had  not  lived  in  vain. 

II 

Heavy  black  clouds  were  banking  upon  the  horizon  as 
he  went  down  the  hill  and  struck  the  Sea  Road  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Scaw  House.  Except  in  that  far  distance  the  sky 
was  a  relentless,  changeless  blue.  Every  detail  in  the  scene 
was  marked  with  a  hard  outline,  every  sound,  the  sea,  the 
Bell  Rock,  the  cries  of  sheep,  the  nestling  trees,  was  doubly 
insistent. 

He  banged  the  knocker  upon  the  Scaw  House  door  and 
when  the  old  woman  came  to  open  to  him  he  saw  that  some- 
thing had  occurred.  Her  hair  fell  about  her  neck,  her  face 
was  puckered  with  distress  and  her  whole  appearance  was 
dismayed. 

479 


480  FORTITUDE 

"  Is  my  father  in  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  He  is,  but  he's  ill,"  she  answered  him,  eyeing  him 
doubtfully.  "  He  won't  know  yer — I  doubt  he'll  know  any 
one.     He's  had  a  great  set-back — " 

Peter  pushed  past  her  into  the  hall — "  Is  he  ill?  " 

"  Indeed  he  is.  He  was  suddenly  took — the  other  evenin* 
I  being  in  my  kitchen  heard  a  great  cry.  I  come  runnin* 
and  there  in  the  dining-room  I  found  him,  standing  there 
in  the  midst,  his  hands  up.  His  eyes,  you  must  understand, 
sir,  were  wide  and  staring — '  They've  beaten  me,'  he  cried, 
'  They've  beaten  me  ' — just  like  that,  sir,  and  then  down 
he  tumbled  in  a  living  fit,  foaming  at  the  mouth  and  striking 
his  poor  head  against  the  fender.  Yer  may  come  up,  sir, 
but  he  won't  know  yer  which  he  doesn't  me  either." 

Peter  followed  her  up  to  the  dreary  room  that  his  father 
inhabited.  Even  here  the  paper  was  peeling  off  the  walls, 
some  of  the  window-glass  was  broken  and  the  carpet  was 
torn.  His  father  lay  on  his  back  in  an  old  high  four-poster. 
His  eyes  stared  before  him,  cheeks  were  ashen  white — 
his  hands  too  were  wliite  like  ivory. 

His  lips  moved  but  he  made  no  sound.  He  did  not  see 
Peter,  nor  did  his  eyes  turn  from  the  blank  stare  that  held 
them. 

"  Has  he  a  doctor?  "  Peter  asked  the  old  woman. 

"  Ay — there's  a  young  man  been  coming — "  the  old  wom- 
an answered  him.  She  was,  he  noticed,  more  subservient 
than  she  had  been  on  the  former  occasion.  She  obviously 
turned  to  him  now  with  her  greedy  old  eyes  as  the  one  who 
was  likely  soon  to  be  in  authority. 

Peter  turned  back  to  the  door.  "  This  room  must  be 
made  warmer  and  more  comfortable.  I  will  send  a  doctor 
from  the  hotel  this  evening — I  will  come  in  again  to-night." 

As  he  looked  about  the  poor  room,  as  he  saw  the  dust 
that  the  sunlight  made  so  visible,  he  wondered  that  the  house 
of  cards  could  so  recently  have  held  him  within  its  shadow. 
He  felt  as  though  he  had  passed  through  some  terrible 
nightmare  that  the  light  of  day  rendered  not  only  fantastic 
but  incredible.  That  old  Peter  Westcott  had  indeed  been 
flung  out  of  the  high  window  of  Norah  Monogue's  room. 

Leaving  Scaw  House  on  his  right  he  struck  through  the 
dark  belt  of  trees  and  came  out  at  the  foot  of  the  Grey  HilL 


SCAW  HOUSE  481 

The  dark  belt  of  cloud  was  spreading  now  fast  across  the 
blue — soon  it  would  catch  the  sun — the  Tower  itself  was 
already  swallowed  by  a  cold  grey  shadow. 

Peter  began  to  climb  the  hill,  and  remembered  that  he 
had  not  been  there  since  that  Easter  morning  when  he  had 
kissed  an  unknown  lady  and  so  flung  fine  omens  about  his 
future. 

Soon  he  had  reached  the  little  green  mound  that  lay 
below  the  Giant's  Finger.  Although  the  Grey  Hill  would 
have  been  small  and  insignificant  in  hilly  country  here,  by 
its  isolation,  it  assumed  importance.  On  every  side  of  it 
ran  the  sand-dunes — in  front  of  it,  almost  as  it  seemed  up 
to  its  very  feet,  ran  the  sea.  Treliss  was  completely  hid- 
den, not  a  house  could  be  seen.  The  black  clouds  now  had 
caught  the  sea  and  only  far  away  to  the  right  the  waves 
still  glittered,  for  the  rest  it  was  an  inky  grey  with  a  touch 
of  white  here  and  there  where  submerged  rocks  found  break- 
ers. For  one  moment  the  sun  had  still  evaded  the  cloud, 
then  it  was  caught  and  the  world  was  instantly  cold. 

Peter,  as  he  sat  there,  felt  that  if  he  were  only  still 
enough  the  silence  would  soon  be  vocal.  The  Hill,  the 
Sea,  the  Sky — these  things  seemed  to  have  summoned  him 
there  that  they  might  speak  to  him. 

He  was  utterly  detached  from  life.  He  looked  down 
from  a  height  in  air  and  saw  his  little  body  sitting  there 
as  he  had  done  on  the  day  when  he  had  proposed  to  Clare. 
He  might  think  now  of  the  long  journey  that  it  had  come, 
he  might  watch  the  course  of  its  little  history,  see  the 
full  circle  that  it  had  travelled,  wonder  for  what  new  busi- 
ness it  was  now  to  prepare. 

For  full  circle  he  had  come.  He,  Peter  Westcott,  sat 
there,  as  naked,  as  alone,  as  barren  of  all  rewards,  of  all 
success,  of  all  achievements  as  he  had  been  when,  so  many 
years  ago  he  had  watched  that  fight  in  the  inn  on  Christmas 
Eve.  The  scene  passed  before  him  again — he  saw  himself, 
a  tiny  boy,  swinging  his  legs  from  the  high  chair.  He 
saw  the  room  thick  with  smoke,  the  fishermen,  Dicky  the 
Fool,  the  mistletoe  swinging,  the  snow  blocking  in  from  out- 
side, the  fight — it  was  all  as  though  it  passed  once  more 
before  his  eyes. 

His  whole  life  came  to  him — the  scenes  at  Scaw  House, 


48«  FORTITUDE 

Dawson's,  the  bookshop,  Brockett's,  Bucket  Lane,  Chelsea, 
that  last  awful  scene  there  ...  all  the  people  that  he  had 
known  passed  before  him — Stephen  Brant,  his  grandfather, 
his  father,  his  mother,  Bobby  Galleon,  Mr.  Zanti,  Clare, 
Cards,  Mrs.  Brockett,  Norah,  Henry  Galleon,  Mrs.  Rossi- 
ter,  dear  Mrs.  Launce  .  .  .  these  and  many  more.  He 
could  see  them  all  dispassionately  now;  how  that  other 
Peter  Westcott  had  felt  their  contact;  how  he  had  longed 
for  their  friendship,  dreaded  their  anger,  missed  them, 
wanted  them,  minded  their  desertion.  .  .  . 

Now,  behold,  they  were  all  gone.  Alone  on  this  Hill 
with  the  great  sea  at  his  feet,  with  the  storm  rolling  up  to 
him,  Peter  Westcott  thought  of  his  wife  and  his  son,  his 
friends  and  his  career — thought  of  everything  that  had  been 
life  to  him,  yes,  even  his  sins,  his  temptations,  his  desires 
for  the  beast  in  man,  his  surly  temper,  his  furious  anger, 
his  selfishness,  his  lack  of  imderstanding — all  these  things 
had  been  taken  away  from  him,  every  trail  had  been  given 
to  him — and  now,  naked,  on  a  hill,  he  knew  the  first  peace 
of  his  life. 

And  as  he  knew,  sitting  there,  that  thus  Peace  had  come  "^ 
to  him,  how  odd  it  seemed  that  only  a  few  weeks  ago  he  / 
had  been  coming  down  to  Cornwall  with  his  soul,  as  he  had  / 
then  thought,  killed  for  ever. 

The  world  had  seemed,  utterly,  absolutely,  for  ever  at 
an  end;  and  now  here  he  was,  sitting  here,  eager  to  go 
back  into  it  all  again,  wanting — it  almost  seemed — to  be 
bruised  and  battered  all  over  again. 

And  perceiving  this  showed  him  what  was  indeed  the 
truth  that  all  his  life  had  been  only  Boy's  History.  He  - 
had  gone  up — he  had  gone  down — he  had  loved  and  hated, 
exulted  and  despaired,  but  it  was  all  with  a  boy's  intense 
I  realisation  of  the  moment,  with  a  boy's  swift,  easy  transi- 
\     tion  from  one  crisis  to  another. 

It  had  been  his  education — and  now  his  education  was 
over.  As  he  had  said  those  words  to  Norah  Monogue,  "  I 
will  go  back,"  he  had  become  a  man.  Never  again  would 
Life  be  so  utterly  over  as  it  had  been  two  months  ago— 
never  again  would  he  be  so  single-hearted  in  his  reserved 
adoption  of  it  as  he  had  been  those  days  ago,  at  Norah 
Monogue's  side. 


SCAW  HOUSE  483 

He  saw  that  always,  through  everything  that  boy,  Peter 
Westcott  had  been  in  the  way.  It  was  not  until  he  had 
taken,  on  that  day  in  Norah  Monogue's  room,  Peter  West- 
cott in  his  hands  and  flung  him  to  the  four  winds  that  he 
had  seen  how  terribly  in  the  way  he  had  been.  "  Go  back," 
Norah  had  said  to  him ;  "  you  have  done  all  these  things  for 
yourself  and  you  have  been  beaten  to  your  knees — go  back 
now  and  do  something  for  others.  You  have  been  brave 
^for  yourself — be  brave  now  for  others." 

And  he  was  going  back. 

He  was  going  back,  as  he  had  seen  on  that  day,  to  no 
easy  life.  He  was  going  to  take  up  all  those  links  that  had 
been  so  difficult  for  him  before — he  was  going  to  learn  all 
over  again  that  art  that  he  had  fancied  that  he  had  con- 
quered at  the  very  first  attempt — he  was  going  now  with, 
no  expectations,  no  hopes,  no  ambitions.  Life  was  still  an 
adventure,  but  now  an  adventure  of  a  hard,  cruel  sort, 
something  that  needed  an  answer  grim  and  dark. 

The  storm  was  coming  up  apace.  The  wind  had  risen 
and  was  now  rushing  over  the  short  stiff  grass,  bellowing 
out  to  meet  the  sea,  blowing  back  to  meet  the  clouds  that 
raced  behind  the  hill. 

The  sky  was  black  with  clouds.  Peter  could  see  the  sand 
rising  from  the  dunes  in  a  thin  mist. 

Peter  flung  himself  upon  his  back.  The  first  drops  of 
rain  fell,  cold,  upon  his  face.     Then  he  heard: 

"  Peter  Westcott !     Peter  Westcott !  " 

"I'm  here!" 

**  What  have  you  brought  to  us  here  ?  " 

"  I  have  brought  nothing." 

"  What  have  you  to  offer  us  ?  " 

"  I  can  offer  nothing." 

He  got  up  from  the  ground  and  faced  the  wind.  HiB 
put  his  back  to  the  Giant's  Finger  because  of  the  force  of 
the  gale.     The  rain  was  coming  down  now  in  torrents. 

He  felt  a  great  exultation  surge  through  his  body. 

Then  the  Voice — ^not  in  the  rain,  nor  the  wind,  nor  the 
sea,  but  yet  all  of  these,  and  coming  as  it  seemed  from  the 
very  heart  of  the  Hill,  came  swinging  through  the  storm — 

"  Have  you  cast  This  away,  Peter  Westcott?  " 

"And  this.?" 


sS^  FORTITUDE 

"  That  also—" 

"  And  this  ?  " 

"This  also?" 

"And  this?" 

"  I  have  flung  this,  too,  away." 

"  Have  you  anything  now  about  you  that  you  treasure  ?  " 

"  I  have  nothing." 

"  Friends,  ties,  ambitions  ?  " 

"  They  are  all  gone." 

Then  out  of  the  heart  of  the  storm  there  came  Voices: — 
/       "  Blessed  be  Pain  and  Torment  and  every  torture  of  the 
Body  .  .  .  Blessed  be  Plague  and  Pestilence  and  the  Ill- 
ness of  Nations.  .  .  . 

"  Blessed  be  all  Loss  and  the  Failure  of  Friends  and  the 
Sacrifice  of  Love.  .  .  . 

"  Blessed  be  the  Destruction  of  all  Possessions,  the  Ruin 
of  all  Property,  Fine  Cities,  and  Great  Palaces.  .  .  . 

"  Blessed  be  the  Disappointment  of  all  Ambitions.  .  .  . 

"  Blessed  be  all  Failure  and  the  ruin  of  every  Earthly 
Hope.  .  .  . 

"  Blessed  be  all  Sorrows,  Torments,  Hardships,  Endur- 
ances that  demand  Courage.  .  .  . 

"  Blessed  be  these  things — for  of  these  things  cometh  the^ 
making  of  a  Man.  .  .  ." 

Peter,  clinging  to  the  Giant's  Finger,  staggered  in  the 
wind.  The  world  was  hidden  now  in  a  mist  of  rain.  He 
was  alone — and  he  was  happy,  happy,  as  he  had  never 
known  happiness,  in  any  time,  before. 

The  rain  lashed  his  face  and  his  body.  His  clothes  clung 
heavily  about  him. 

He  answered  the  storm:  ' 

"  Make  of  me  a  man — to  be  afraid  of  nothing  ...  to  be 
ready  for  everything — love,  friendship,  success  ...  to 
take  if  it  comes  ...  to  care  nothing  if  these  things  are 
not  for  me — 

"  Make  me  brave!     Make  me  brave!" 

He  fancied  that  once  more  against  the  wall  of  sea-mist 
he  saw  tremendous,  victorious,  the  Rider  on  the  Lion.  But 
now,  for  the  first  time,  the  Rider's  face  was  turned  towards 
him — 

And  Behold — ^he  was  the  Rider! 

THE  END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

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